D0RY 


OFH 
QoosE 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
Mrs.    James   C.    Keesling,    Jr. 


/ 


Lucy  Ward  Stebbi 
2731  DurantAv* 
Berkeley,  Cal. 


38?  JHr 

THE  DIARY  OF  A  GOOSE  GIRL.    Illustrated. 

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THE 

DIAEY  OF  A  GOOSE  GIRL 


/  looked  about  me  ivith  what  Stevenson  calls  a  "_/?»£,  dizzy,  muddle-headed  joy  "  (page  j>) 


THE     DIARY 
OF    A    GOOSE     GIRL 

BY 

KATE    DOUGLAS    WIGGIN 

With  Illustrations  by 
CLAUDE  A.  SHEPPERSON 


BOSTON   AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN    AND    COMPANY 

llitiersiDe  press,  Cambridge 
1902 


COPYRIGHT,   1901    AND    1902,   BY   KATE   DOUGLAS   RIGGS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


Published  May,  zgoa 


To  the  hens,  ducks,  and  geese 

who  so  kindly  gave  me 

sittings  for    these 

sketches  the  book 

is  gratefully 

inscribed 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTEATIONS 

PAGE 

/  looked  about  me  with  what  Stevenson  calls  a  "fine,  dizzy, 

muddle-headed  joy  "  (page  8) Frontispiece 

TJiornycroft  House     ...-.' 1 

Life  converges  there,  just  at  the  public  duck-pond     ....  3 

The  houses  are  set  about  the  Green 5 

Mrs.  Heaven 10 

Mr.  Heaven ...*....  11 

The  Woodmancote  carrier 13 

Stuffed  and  set  on  wheels 14 

The  sitting  hens     .     ...    .     .     ....    , 17 

Hens  .  .  .  goto  bed  at  a  virtuous  hour   .........  19 

Ducks  and  geese  .  .  .  would  roam  the  streets  till  morning  .    .  20 

The  pole  was  not  long  enough >„    .    .     .     .     .  21 

They  .  .  .  waddle  under  the  wrong  fence 22 

Honking  and  hissing  like  a  bewildered  orchestra 23 

Harried  and  pecked  by  the  big  geese 24 

In  solitary  splendor 25 

Dryshod  warnings  which  are  never  heeded 27 

The  mother  goes  off  to  bed 28 

Cornelia  and  the  web-footed  Gracchi 29 

An  orphan  asylum     . ;    .,  ; 30 

Phcebe  and  I  followed  her  stealthily 31 

Coaxed  out .  .  .  by  youthful  curiosity 33 

Nine  huddle  together 34 

Of  a  wandering  mind 35 

With  tangled  hair,  scratched  noses,  and  no  hens 36 

More  pride  of  bearing,  and  less  to  be  proud  of 43 

Mr.  Heaven  discomfited 46 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Threatened .  .  .  to  hatch  in  my  Tiand 51 

One  can  always  be  a  Goose  Girl    . 53 

TJie  geese  .  .  .  cross  the  rick-yard 54 

"Poor  little  chap,  .  .  .  'e  never  was  a  fy write" 56 

Mr.  Heaven  .  .  .  went  out  to  shoot  wild  rabbits 59 

Out  of  favor  with  the  entire  family 61 

The  life  .  .  .  is  a  most  exciting  and  wearying  one     ....  65 

His  spouse  took  a  brief  promenade  with  him 66 

The  freedom  of  the  place  at  my  expense .74 

Puffing  cosily  at  his  pipe 77 

A  Hen  Conference 79 

Arguing  questions  of  diet 81 

The  afternoon  session  was  most  exciting 82 

Not  asked  to  the  Conference 84 

Coming  home 85 

Workmen  were  trudging^  home 87 

Along  the  highway 89 

The  scent  of  the  hay   .     . 92 

The  last  of  June 93 

A  place  in  which  it  is  so  easy  to  be  good 94 

Not  particularly  attracted  by  the  poultry 96 

Leaned  languidly  against  the  netting 97 


Caught  her  son  red-handed 99 

He  was  treated  summarily  and  smartly 100 

The  Six  Bells  found  the  last  poultry  somewhat  tough    .    .     .  103 

The  gadabout  hen 105 

She  was  unable  to  take  the  four  rabbits 107 

The  creature  was  well  mounted 109 

PTicebe  and  Gladwish  .  .  115 


Thornycroft  House 


THOENTCROFT  FARM,  Near  Barbury  Green, 
July  1,  190-. 

IN  alluding  to  myself  as  a  Goose 
Girl,  I  am  using  only  the  most 
modest  of  my  titles ;  for  I  am 
also  a  poultry  maid,  a  tender  of 
Belgian  hares  and  rabbits,  and  a 
shepherdess ;  but  I  particularly 
fancy  the  role  of  Goose  Girl,  be- 
cause it  recalls  the  German  fairy  tales  of  my  early 
youth,  when  I  always  yearned,  but  never  hoped,  to  be 
precisely  what  I  now  am. 

As  I  was  jolting  along  these  charming  Sussex  roads 
[1] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

the  other  day,  a  fat  buff  pony  and  a  tippy  cart  being  my 
manner  of  progression,  I  chanced  upon  the  village  of 
Barbury  Green. 

One  glance  was  enough  for  any  woman,  who,  having 
eyes  to  see,  could  see  with  them ;  but  I  made  assurance 
doubly  sure  by  driving  about  a  little,  struggling  to  con- 
ceal my  new-born  passion  from  the  stable-boy  who  was 
my  escort.  Then,  it  being  high  noon  of  a  cloudless  day, 
I  descended  from  the  trap  and  said  to  the  astonished 
yokel :  "  You  may  go  back  to  the  Hydropathic ;  I  am 
spending  a  month  or  two  here.  Wait  a  moment  —  I  ?11 
send  a  message,  please  ! " 

I  then  scribbled  a  word  or  two  to  those  having  me  in 
custody. 

"  I  am  very  tired  of  people,"  the  note  ran,  "  and  want 
to  rest  myself  by  living  a  while  with  things.  Address 
me  (if  you  must)  at  Barbury  Green  post-office,  or  at  all 
events  send  me  a  box  of  simple  clothing  there  —  nothing 
but  shirts  and  skirts,  please.  I  cannot  forget  that  I  am 
only  twenty  miles  from  Oxenbridge  (though  it  might  be 
one  hundred  and  twenty,  which  is  the  reason  I  adore  it), 
but  I  rely  upon  you  to  keep  an  honorable  distance  your- 
selves, and  not  to  divulge  my  place  of  retreat  to  others, 
especially  to  —  you  know  whom!  Do  not  pursue  me. 
I  will  never  be  taken  alive ! " 

Having  cut,  thus,  the  cable  that  bound  me  to  civiliza- 
tion, and  having  seen  the  buff  pony  and  the  dazed  yokel 

[2] 
I 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 


disappear  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  I  looked  about  me  with 
what  Stevenson  calls  a  "  fine,  dizzy,  muddle-headed  joy," 
the  joy  of  a  successful  rebel  or  a  liberated  serf.  Plenty 
of  money  in  my  purse  —  that  was  unrornantic,  of  course, 
but  it  simplified  matters  —  and  nine  hours  of  daylight 
remaining  in  which  to  find  a  lodging. 


Life  converges  there,  just  at  the  public  duck-pond 
[3] 


THE   DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

The  village  is  one  of  the  oldest,  and  I  am  sure  it  must 
be  one  of  the  quaintest,  in  England.  It  is  too  small  to 
be  printed  on  the  map  (an  honor  that  has  spoiled  more 
than  one  Arcadia),  so  pray  do  not  look  there,  but  just 
believe  in  it,  and  some  day  you  may  be  rewarded  by 
driving  into  it  by  chance,  as  I  did,  and  feel  the  same  Co- 
lumbus thrill  running,  like  an  electric  current,  through 
your  veins.  I  withhold  specific  geographical  informa- 
tion in  order  that  you  may  nqt  miss  that  Columbus 
thrill,  which  comes  too  seldom  in  a  world  of  railroads. 

The  Green  is  in  the  very  centre  of  Barbury  village, 
and  all  civic,  political,  family,  and  social  life  converges 
there,  just  at  the  public  duck-pond  —  a  wee,  sleepy*  lake 
with  a  slope  of  grass-covered  stones  by  which  the  ducks 
descend  for  their  swim. 

The  houses  are  set  about  the  Green  like  those  in  a 
toy  village.  They  are  of  old  brick,  with  crumpled,  up- 
and-down  roofs  of  deep-toned  red,  and  tufts  of  stonecrop 
growing  from  the  eaves.  Diamond-paned  windows,  half 
open,  admit  the  sweet  summer  air ;  and  as  for  the  gar- 
dens in  front,  it  would  seem  as  if  the  inhabitants  had 
nothing  to  do  but  work  in  them,  there  is  such  a  riotous 
profusion  of  color  and  bloom.  To  add  to  the  effect, 
there  are  always  pots  of  flowers  hanging  from  the  trees, 
blue  flax  and  yellow  myrtle;  and  cages  of  Java  sparrows 
and  canaries  singing  joyously,  as  well  they  may  in  such 
a  paradise. 

[4] 


THE    DIARY   OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 


The  houses  are  set  about  the  Green 

The  shops  are  idyllic,  too,  as  if  Nature  had  seized 
even  the  man  of  trade  and  made  him  subservient  to  her 
designs.  The  general  draper's,  where  I  fitted  myself 
out  for  a  day  or  two  quite  easily,  is  set  back  in  a  tangle 
of  poppies  and  sweet  peas,  Madonna  lilies  and  Canter- 
bury bells.  The  shop  itself  has  a  gay  awning,  and  what 
do  you  think  the  draper  has  suspended  from  it,  just  as 
a  picturesque  suggestion  to  the  passer-by  ?  Suggestion 
I  call  it,  because  I  should  blush  to  use  the  word  adver- 
tisement in  describing  anything  so  dainty  and  decorative. 

[5] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

Well,  then,  garlands  of  shoes,  if  you  please !  Baby 
bootlets  of  bronze ;  tiny  ankle-ties  in  yellow,  blue,  and 
scarlet  kid ;  glossy  patent-leather  pumps  shining  in  the 
sun,  with  festoons  of  slippers  at  the  corners,  flowery 
slippers  in  imitation  Berlin  wool-work.  If  you  make 
this  picture  in  your  mind's  eye,  just  add  a  window  above 
the  awning,  and  over  the  fringe  of  marigolds  in  the  win- 
dow-box put  the  draper's  wife  dancing  a  rosy-cheeked 
baby.  Alas  !  my  words  are  only  black  and  white,  I  fear, 
and  this  picture  needs  a  palette  drenched  in  primary 
colors. 

Along  the  street,  a  short  distance,  is  the  old  watch- 
maker's. Set  in  the  hedge  at  the  gate  is  a  glass  case 
with  Multum  in  Parvo  painted  on  the  woodwork. 
Within,  a  little  stand  of  trinkets  revolves  slowly ;  as 
slowly,  I  imagine,  as  the  current  of  business  in  that 
quiet  street.  The  house  stands  a  trifle  back  and  is  cov- 
ered thickly  with  ivy,  while  over  the  entrance-door  of 
the  shop  is  a  great  round  clock  set  in  a  green  frame 
of  clustering  vine.  The  hands  pointed  to  one  when 
I  passed  the  watchmaker's  garden  with  its  thicket  of 
fragrant  lavender  and  its  murmuring  bees  ;  so  I  went  in 
to  the  sign  of  the  Strong  i'  the  Arm  for  some  cold  lunch- 
eon, determining  to  patronize  The  Running  Footman  at 
the  very  next  opportunity.  Neither  of  these  inns  is 
starred  by  Baedeker,  and  this  fact  adds  the  last  touch  of 
enchantment  to  the  picture. 

[6] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

The  landlady  at  the  Strong  i'  the  Arm  stabbed  me  in 
the  heart  by  telling  me  that  there  were  no  apartments 
to  let  in  the  village,  and  that  she  had  no  private  sitting- 
room  in  the  inn ;  but  she  speedily  healed  the  wound  by 
saying  that  I  might  be  accommodated  at  one  of  the  farm- 
houses in  the  vicinity.  Did  I  object  to  a  farm-'ouse  ? 
Then  she  could  cheerfully  recommend  the  Evan's  farm, 
only  'alf  a  mile  away.  She  'ad  understood  from  Miss 
Phoebe  Evan,  who  sold  her  poultry,  that  they  would 
take  one  lady  lodger  if  she  did  n't  wish  much  waiting 
upon. 

In  my  present  mood  I  was  in  search  of  the  strenuous 
life,  and  eager  to  wait,  rather  than  to  be  waited  upon ; 
so  I  walked  along  the  edge  of  the  Green,  wishing  that 
some  mentally  unbalanced  householder  would  take  a 
sudden  fancy  to  me  and  ask  me  to  come  in  and  lodge 
a  while.  I  suppose  these  families  live  under  their  roofs 
of  peach-blow  tiles,  in  the  midst  of  their  blooming  gar- 
dens, for  a  guinea  a  week  or  thereabouts,  yet  if  they 
"undertook"  me  (to  use  their  own  phrase),  the  bill  for 
my  humble  meals  and  bed  would  be  at  least  double  that. 
I  don't  know  that  I  blame  them ;  one  should  have  proper 
compensation  for  admitting  a  world-stained  lodger  into 
such  an  Eden. 

When  I  was  searching  for  rooms  a  week  ago,  I 
chanced  upon  a  pretty  cottage  where  the  woman  had 
sometimes  let  apartments.  She  showed  me  the  premises 

[7] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

and  asked  me  if  I  would  mind  taking  my  meals  in  her 
own  dining-room,  where  I  could  be  served  privately  at 
certain  hours ;  and,  since  she  had  but  the  one  sitting- 
room,  would  I  allow  her  to  go  on  using  it  occasionally  ? 
also,  if  I  had  no  special  preference,  would  I  take  the 
second-sized  bedroom  and  leave  her  in  possession  of  the 
largest  one,  which  permitted  her  to  have  the  baby's  crib 
by  her  bedside  ?  She  thought  I  should  be  quite  as 
comfortable,  and  it  was  her  opinion  that  in  making 
arrangements  with  lodgers,  it  was  a  good  plan  not  to 
"  bryke  up  the  'ome  any  more  than  was  necessary." 

"  Bryke  up  the  'ome ! "    That  is  seemingly  the  malig- 
nant purpose  with  which  I  entered  Barbury  Green. 


[8] 


n 

July  4th. 

ENTER  the  family  of  Thornycroft  Farm,  of  which.  I 
am  already  a  member  in  good  and  regular  standing. 

I  introduce  Mrs.  Heaven  first,  for  she  is  a  self-satu- 
rated person  who  would  never  forgive  the  insult  should 
she  receive  any  lower  place. 

She  welcomed  me  with  the  statement :  "  We  do  not 
take  lodgers  -here,  nor  boarders  ;  no  lodgers,  nor  board- 
ers, but  we  do  occasionally  admit  paying  guests,  those 
who  look  as  if  they  would  appreciate  the  quietude  of 
the  plyce  and  be  willing  as  you  might  say  to  remunerate 
according." 

I  did  not  mind  at  this  particular  juncture  what  I  was 
called,  so  long  as  the  epithet  was  comparatively  unob- 
jectionable, so  I  am  a  paying  guest,  therefore,  and  I 
expect  to  pay  handsomely  for  the  handsome  appellation. 
Mrs.  Heaven  is  short  and  fat ;  she  fills  her  dress  as  a 
pin-cushion  fills  its  cover ;  she  wears  a  cap  and  apron, 
and  she  is  so  full  of  platitudes  that  she  would  have  burst 
had  I  not  appeared  as  a  providential  outlet  for  them. 
Her  accent  is  not  of  the  farm,  but  of  the  town,  and 
smacks  wholly  of  the  marts  of  trade.  She  is  repetitious, 

[9] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 


too,  as  well  as  platitudinous.  "  I  'ope  if  there  's  any- 
think  you  require  you  will  let  us  know,  let  us  know," 
she  says  several  times  each  day ;  and  whenever  she 
enters  my  sitting-room  she  prefaces  her  conversation 
with  the  remark :  "  I  trust  you  are  finding  it  quiet  here, 
miss  ?  It 's  the  quietude  of  the  plyce  that  is  its  charm, 
yes,  the  quietude.  And  yet "  (she  dribbles  on)  "  it  wears 
on  a  body  after  a  while,  miss.  I  often  go  into  Wood- 
inucket  to  visit  one  of  my  sons  just  for  the  noise,  simply 
for  the  noise,  miss,  for  nothink  else  in  the  world  but  the 

noise.  There 's  nothink  like 
noise  for  soothing  nerves 
that  is  worn  threadbare  with 
the  quietude,  miss,  or  at 
least  that's  my  experience; 
and  yet  to  a  strynger  the 
quietude  of  the  plyce  is  its 
charm,  undoubtedly  its  chief 
charm ;  and  that  is  what  our 
paying  guests  always  say, 
although  our  charges  are 
somewhat  higher  than  other 
plyces.  If  there 's  anythink 
you  require,  miss,  I  'ope 
you  '11  mention  it.  There  is 
not  a  commodious  assort- 
ment in  Barbury  Green,  but 
[10] 


Mrs.  Heaven 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 


we  can  always  send  the  pony  to  Woodmucket  in  case 
of  -urgency.  Our  paying  guest  last  summer  was  a  Mrs. 
Pollock,  and  she  was  by  way  of  having  sudden  fancies. 
Young  and  unmarried  though  you  are,  miss,  I  think  you 
will  tyke  my  meaning  without  my  speaking  plyner  ? 
Well,  at  six  o'clock 
of  a  rainy  afternoon, 
she  was  seized  with 
an  unaccountable 
desire  for  vegetable 
marrows,  and  Mr. 
'Eaven  put  the  pony 
in  the  cart  and  went 
to  Woodmucket  for 
them,  which  is  a 
great  advantage  to 
be  so  near  a  town, 
and  yet  'ave  the  qui- 
etude/' 

Mr.  Heaven  is 
merged,  like  Mr. 
Jelly  by,  in  the  more 
shining  qualities  of 

his  wife.  A  line  of  description  is  too  long  for  him. 
Indeed,  I  can  think  of  no  single  word  brief  enough,  at 
least  in  English.  The  Latin  "  nil "  will  do,  since  no 
language  is  rich  in  words  of  less  than  three  letters. 
[11] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

He  is  nice,  kind,  bald,  timid,  thin,  and  so  colorless  that 
he  can  scarcely  be  discerned  save  in  a  strong  light. 
When  Mrs.  Heaven  goes  out  into  the  orchard  in  search 
of  him,  I  can  hardly  help  calling  from  my  window, 
"  Bear  a  trifle  to  the  right,  Mrs.  Heaven  —  now  to  the 
left  —  just  in  front  of  you  now  —  if  you  put  out  your 
hands  you  will  touch  him."  4 

Phoebe,  aged  seventeen,  is  the  daughter  of  the  house. 
She  is  virtuous,  industrious,  conscientious,  and  singularly 
destitute  of  physical  charm.  She  is  more  than  plain ; 
she  looks  as  if  she  had  been  planned  without  any  de- 
finite purpose  in  view,  made  of  the  wrong  materials, 
been  badly  put  together,  and  never  properly  finished  off  ; 
but  "  plain  "  after  all  is  a  relative  word.  Many  a  plain 
girl  has  been  married  for  her  beauty  ;  and  now  and  then 
a  beauty,  falling  under  a  cold  eye,  has  been  thought 
plain. 

Phoebe  has  her  compensations,  for  she  is  beloved  by, 
and  reciprocates  the  passion  of,  the  Woodmancote  carrier, 
Woodmucket  being  the  English  manner  of  pronouncing 
the  place  of  his  abode.  If  he  "  carries  "  as  energetically 
for  the  great  public  as  he  fetches  for  Phoebe,  then  he 
must  be  a  rising  and  a  prosperous  man.  He  brings  her 
daily,  wild  strawberries,  cherries,  birds'  nests,  peacock 
feathers,  sea-shells,  green  hazel-nuts,  samples  of  hens' 
food,  or  bouquets  of  wilted  field  flowers  tied  together 
tightly  and  held  with  a  large,  moist,  loving  hand.  He 

[12]. 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

has  fine  curly  hair  of  sandy  hue,  which  forms  an  aureole 
on  his  brow,  and  a  reddish  beard,  which  makes  another 
inverted  aureole  to  match,  round  his  chin.  One  cannot 
look  at  him,  especially  when  the  sun  shines  through 
him,  without  thinking  how  lovely  he  would  be  if  stuffed 
and  set  on  wheels,  with  a  little  string  to  drag  him  about. 


The  Woodmancote  carrier 

Phoebe  confided  to  me  that  she  was  on  the  eve  of 
loving  the  postman  when  the  carrier  came  across  her 
horizon. 

[13] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

"  It  does  n't  do  to  be  too  hysty,  does  it,  miss  ?  "  she 
asked  me  as  we  were  weeding  the  onion  bed.  "  I  was  to 
give  the  postman  his  answer  on  the  Monday  night,  and 
it  was  on  the  Monday  morning  that  Mr.  Gladwish  made 
his  first  trip  here  as  carrier.  I  may  say  I  never  wy  vered 
from  that  moment,  and  no  more  did  he.  When  I  think 
how  near  I  came  to  promising  the  postman  it  gives  me 
a  turn.'7  (I  can  understand  that,  for  I  once  met  the 
man  I  nearly  promised  years  before 
to  marry,  and  we  both  experienced 
such  a  sense  of  relief  at  being  free 
instead  of  bound  that  we  came  near 
falling  in  love  for  sheer  joy.) 

The  last  and  most  important  mem- 
ber of  the  household  is  the  Square 
Baby.  His  name  is  Albert  Edward, 
and  he  is  really  five  years  old  and 
no  baby  at  all;  but  his  appearance 
on  this  planet  was  in  the  nature  of  a  complete  surprise 
to  all  parties  concerned,  and  he  is  spoiled  accordingly. 
He  has  a  square  head  and  jaw,  square  shoulders,  square 
hands  and  feet.  He  is  red  and  white  and  solid  and 
stolid  and  slow-witted,  as  the  young  of  his  class  com- 
monly are,  and  will  make  a  bulwark  of  the  nation  in 
course  of  time,  I  should  think ;  for  England  has  to 
produce  a  few  thousand  such  square  babies  every  year 
for  use  in  the  colonies  and  in  the  standing  army. 
[14] 


THE    DIARY    OP    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

Albert  Edward  has  already  a  military  gait,  and  when 
he  has  acquired  a  habit  of  obedience  at  all  comparable 
with  his  power  of  command,  he  will  be  able  to  take  up 
the  white  man's  burden  with  distinguished  success. 
Meantime  I  can  never  look  at  him  without  marveling 
how  the  English  climate  can  transmute  bacon  and  eggs, 
tea  and  the  solid  household  loaf  into  such  radiant  roses 
and  lilies  as  bloom  upon  his  cheeks  and  lips. 


[15] 


Ill 

July  8th. 

THORNYCROFT  is  by  way  of  being  a  small  poultry 
farm. 

In  reaching  it  from  Barbury  Green,  you  take  the  first 
left-hand  road,  go  till  you  drop,  and  there  you  are. 

It  reminds  me  of  my  "  grandmother's  farm  at  Older." 
Did  you  know  the  song  when  you  were  a  child  ?  — 

My  grandmother  had  a  very  fine  farm 
'Way  down  in  the  fields  of  Older. 
With  a  cluck-cluck  here, 
And  a  cluck-cluck  there, 
Here  and  there  a  cluck-cluck, 
Cluck-cluck  here  and  there, 
Down  in  the  fields  at  Older. 

It  goes  on  forever  by  the  simple  subterfuge  of  chang- 
ing a  few  words  in  each  verse. 

My  grandmother  had  a  very  fine  farm 
'Way  down  in  the  fields  of  Older. 
With  a  quack-quack  here, 
And  a  quack-quack  there, 
Here  and  there  a  quack-quack, 
Quack-quack  here  and  there, 
Down  in  the  fields  at  Older. 
[16] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

This  is  followed  by  the  gobble-gobble,  moo-moo,  baa- 
baa,  etc.,  as  long  as  the  laureate's  imagination  and  the 
infant's  breath  hold  good.  The  tune  is  pretty  and  I  do 
not  know,  or  did  not,  when  I  was  young,  a  more  fasci- 
nating lyric. 

Thornycroft  House  must  have  belonged  to  a  country 


The  sitting  hens 

gentleman  once  upon  a  time,  or  to  more  than  one ;  men 
who  built  on  a  bit  here  and  there  once  in  a  hundred 
years,  until  finally  we  have  this  charmingly  irregular 
and  dilapidated  whole.  You  go  up  three  steps  into 
Mrs.  Heaven's  room,  down  two  into  mine,  while  Phoebe's 
[17] 


THE    DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

is  up  in  a  sort  of  turret  with  long,  narrow  lattices  open- 
ing into  the  creepers.  There  are  crooked  little  stair- 
cases, passages  that  branch  off  into  other  passages  and 
lead  nowhere  in  particular ;  I  can't  think  of  a  better 
house  in  which  to  play  hide  and  seek  on  a  wet  day.  In 
front,  what  was  once,  doubtless,  a  green,  is  cut  up  into 
greens;  to  wit,  a  vegetable  garden,  where  the  onions, 
turnips,  and  potatoes  grow  cosily  up  to  the  very  door- 
sill  ;  the  utilitarian  aspect  of  it  all  being  varied  by  some 
scarlet-runners  and  a  scattering  of  poppies  on  either 
side  of  the  path. 

The  Belgian  hares  have  their  habitation  in  a  corner 
fifty  feet  distant ;  one  large  inclosure  for  poultry  lies 
just  outside  the  sweetbriar  hedge  ;  the  others,  with  all 
the  houses  and  coops,  are  in  the  meadow  at  the  back, 
where  also  our  tumbler  pigeons  are  kept. 

Phoebe  attends  to  the  poultry  ;  it  is  her  department. 
Mr.  Heaven  has  neither  the  force  nor  the  finesse  re- 
quired, and  the  gentle  reader  who  thinks  these  qualities 
unneeded  in  so  humble  a  calling  has  only  to  spend  a  few 
days  at  Thornycroft  to  be  convinced.  Mrs.  Heaven 
would  be  of  use,  but  she  is  dressing  the  Square  Baby  in 
the  morning  and  putting  him  to  bed  at  night  just  at  the 
hours  when  the  feathered  young  things  are  undergoing 
the  same  operation. 

A  Goose  Girl,  like  a  poet,  is  sometimes  born,  some- 
times otherwise.  I  am  of  the  born  variety.  No  train- 
[18] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

ing  was  necessary ;  I  put  my  head  on  my  pillow  as  a 
complicated  product  of  modern  civilization  on  a  Tues- 
day night,  and  on  a  Wednesday  morning  I  awoke  as  a 
Goose  Girl. 

My  destiny  slumbered  during  the  day,  but  at  eight 
o'clock  I  heard  a  terrific  squawking  in  the  direction  of 
the  duck-ponds,  and,  aimlessly  drifting  in  that  direc- 
tion, I  came  upon  Phoebe  trying  to  induce  ducks  and 
drakes,  geese  and  ganders  to  retire  for  the  night.  They 
have  to  be  driven  into  inclosures  behind  fences  of  wire 
netting,  fastened  into  little  rat-proof  boxes,  or  shut 


Hens  .  .   .  go  to  bed  at  a  virtuous  hour 
[19] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE   GIRL 


into  separate  coops,  so  as  to  be  safe  from  their  natural 
enemies,  the  rats  and  foxes  ;  which,  obeying,  I  suppose, 
the  law  of  supply  and  demand,  abound  in  this  neigh- 
borhood. The  old  ganders  are  allowed  their  liberty, 

being  of  such  age, 
discretion,  sagaci- 
ty, and  pugnacity 
that  they  can  be 
trusted  to  fight 
their  own  battles. 
The  intelligence 
of  hens,  though 
modest,  is  of  such 
an  order  that  it 
prompts  them  to 
go  to  bed  at  a  vir- 
tuous hour  of  their 
own  accord;  but 
ducks  and  geese 
have  to  be  materi- 
ally assisted,  or  I 
believe  they  would 
roam  the  streets  till  morning.  Never  did  small  boy 
detest  and  resist  being  carried  off  to  his  nursery  as  these 
dullards,  young  and  old,  detest  and  resist  being  driven 
to  theirs.  Whether  they  suffer  from  insomnia,  or  night- 
mare, or  whether  they  simply  prefer  the  sweet  air  of 
[20] 


Ducks  and  geese  .   .   .  would  roam  the  streets 
till  morning 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE   GIRL 


The  poL  'was  not  long  enough 

liberty  (and  death)  to  the  odor  of  captivity  and  the 
coop,  I  have  no  means  of  knowing. 
Phoebe  stood  by  one  of  the  duck-ponds;  a  long  pole  in 
[21] 


THE    DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

her  hand,  and  a  helpless  expression  in  that  doughlike 
countenance  of  hers,  where  aimless  contours  and  fea- 
tures unite  to  make  a  kind  of  facial  blur.  (What  does 
the  carrier  see  in  it  ?)  The  pole  was  not  long  enough  to 
reach  the  ducks,  and  Phoebe's  method  lacked  spirit  and 
adroitness,  so  that  it  was  natural,  perhaps,  that  they  re- 
fused to  leave  the  water,  the  evening  being  warm,  with 
an  uncommon  fine  sunset. 
I  saw  the  situation  at  once  and  ran  to  meet  it  with  a 


They  .   .  .   waddle  under  the  'wrong  fence 

glow  of  interest  and  anticipation.    If  there  is  anything 
in  the  world  I  enjoy,  it  is  making  somebody  do  some- 
thing that  he  does  n't  want  to  do ;  and  if,  when  victory 
[22] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

perches  upon  my  banner,  the  somebody  can  be  brought 
to  say  that  he  ought  to  have  done  it  without  my  mak- 
ing him,  that  adds  the  unforgettable  touch  to  pleasure, 
though  seldom,  alas  !  does  it  happen.  Then  ensued  the 


Honking  and  hissing  like  a  bewildered  orchestra 

delightful  and  stimulating  hour  that  has  now  become  a 
feature  of  the  day  ;  an  hour  in  which  the  remembrance 
of  the  table  d'hote  dinner  at  the  Hydro,  going  on  at 
identically  the  same  time,  only  stirs  me  to  a  keener  joy 
and  gratitude. 

The  ducks  swim  round  in  circles,  hide  under  the 

willows,  and  attempt  to  creep  into  the  rat-holes  in  the 

banks,  a  stupidity  so  crass  that  it  merits  instant  death, 

which  it  somehow  always  escapes.     Then  they  come 

[23] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 


Harried  and  peeked  by  the  big  geese 


out  in  couples  and 
waddle  under  tlie 
wrong  fence  into  the 
lower  meadow,  fly 
madly  under  the  tool- 
house,  pitch  blindly 
in  with  the  sitting 
hens,  and  out  again 
in  short  order,  all  the 
time  quacking  and 
squawking,  honking 
and  hissing  like  a 

bewildered  orchestra.  By  dint  of  splashing  the  water 
with  poles,  throwing  pebbles,  beating  the  shrubs  at  the 
ponds'  edges,  "shooing"  frantically  with  our  skirts, 
crawling  beneath  bars  to  head  them  off,  and  prodding 
them  from  under  bushes  to  urge  them  on,  we  finally  get 
the  older  ones  out  of  the  water  and  the  younger  ones 
into  some  sort  of  relation  to  their  various  retreats ;  but, 
owing  to  their  lack  of  geography,  hatred  of  home,  and 
general  recalcitrancy,  they  none  of  them  turn  up  in  the 
right  place  and  have  to  be  sorted  out.  We  uncover  the 
top  of  the  little  house,  or  the  inclosure  as  it  may  be,  or 
reach  in  at  the  door,  and,  seizing  the  struggling  victim, 
drag  him  forth  and  take  him  where  he  should  have  had 
the  wit  to  go  in  the  first  instance.  The  weak  ^ones  get 
in  with  the  strong  and  are  in  danger  of  being  trampled ; 

[24] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

two  May  goslings  that  look  almost  full-grown  have  run 
into  a  house  with  a  brood  of  ducklings  a  week  old. 
There  are  twenty-seven  crowded  into  one  coop,  five  in 
another,  nineteen  in  another ;  the  gosling  with  one  leg 
has  to  come  out,  and  the  duckling  threatened  with  the 
gapes ;  their  place  is  with  the  "  invaleeds,"  as  Phoebe 
calls  them,  but  they  never  learn  the  location  of  the 
hospital,  nor  have  the  slightest  scruple  about  spreading 
contagious  diseases. 

Finally  when  we  have  separated  and  sorted  exhaus- 
tively, an  operation  in  which  Phoebe  shows  a  delicacy  of 


In  solitary  splendor 

discrimination  and  a  fearlessness  of  attack  amounting 
to  genius,  we  count  the  entire  number  and  find  several 
missing.  Searching  for  their  animate  or  inanimate 
bodies,  we  "scoop"  one  from  under  the  tool-house, 
chance  upon  two  more  who  are  being  harried  and  pecked 
by  the  big  geese  in  the  lower  meadow,  and  discover  one 
sailing  by  himself  in  solitary  splendor  in  the  middle 
of  the  deserted  pond,  a  look  of  evil  triumph  in  his  bead- 

[25] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

like  eye.  Still  we  lack  one  young  duckling,  and  he  at 
length  is  found  dead  by  the  hedge.  A  rat  has  evidently 
seized  him  and  choked  him  at  a  single  throttle,  but  in 
such  haste  that  he  has  not  had  time  to  carry  away  the 
tiny  body. 

"  Poor  think  ! "  says  Phoebe  tearfully  ;  "  it  looks  as  if 
it  was  'it  with  some  kind  of  a  wepping.  I  don't  know 
whatever  to  do  with  the  rats,  they  're  gettin'  that  fearo- 
cious ! " 

Before  I  was  admitted  into  daily  contact  with  the 
living  goose  (my  previous  intercourse  with  him  having 
been  carried  on  when  gravy  and  stuffing  obscured  his 
true  personality),  I  thought  him  a  very  Dreyfus  among 
fowls,  a  sorely  slandered  bird  to  whom  justice  had  never 
been  done ;  for  even  the  gentle  Darwin  is  hard  upon 
him.  My  opinion  is  undergoing  some  slight  modifica- 
tions, but  I  withhold  judgment  at  present,  hoping  that 
some  of  the  follies,  faults,  vagaries,  and  limitations  that 
I  observe  in  Phoebe's  geese  may  be  due  to  Phoebe's  edu- 
cational methods,  which  were,  before  my  advent,  those 
of  the  darkest  ages. 


[26] 


Dryshod  'warnings  which  are  never  heeded 


IV 

July  8th. 

BY  the  time  the  ducks  and  geese  are  incarcerated  for 
the  night,  the  reasonable,  sensible,  practical-minded  hens 
—  especially  those  whose  mentality  is  increased  and 
whose  virtue  is  heightened  by  the  responsibilities  of 
motherhood  —  have  gone  into  their  own  particular  rat- 
proof  boxes,  where  they  are  waiting  in  a  semi-somnolent 
state  to  have  the  wire  doors  closed,  the  bricks  set  against 
them,  and  the  bits  of  sacking  flung  over  the  tops  to  keep 
out  the  draught.  We  have  a  great  many  young  families, 
both  ducklings  and  chicks,  but  we  have  no  duck  mothers 
at  present.  The  variety  of  bird  which  Phoebe  seems  to 
have  bred  during  the  past  year  may  be  called  the  New 

[27] 


THE   DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

Duck,  with  certain  radical  ideas  about  woman's  sphere. 
What  will  happen  to  Thornycroft  if  we  develop  a  New 
Hen  and  a  New  Cow,  my  imagination  fails  to  conceive. 
There  does  not  seem  to  be  the  slightest  danger  for  the 
moment,  however,  and  our  hens  lay  and  sit  and  sit  and 
lay  as  if  laying  and  sitting  were  the  twin  purposes  of 
life. 

The  nature  of  the  hen  seems  to  broaden  with  the 
duties  of  maternity,  but  I  think  myself  that  we  presume 
a  little  upon  her  amiability  and  natural  motherliness. 
It  is  one  thing  to  desire  a  family  of  one's  own,  to  lay 
eggs  with  that  idea  in  view,  to  sit  upon  them  three  long 
weeks  and  hatch  out  and  bring  up  a  nice  brood  of  chicks. 
It  must  be  quite  another  to  have  one's  eggs  abstracted 

day  by  day  and  eaten  by  a 
callous  public,  the  nest  filled 
with    deceitful    substitutes, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  dull  and 
weary  period  of  hatching  to 
bring  into  the  world  another 
person's  children — children, 
too,  of  the  wrong  size^  the 
wrong  kind  of  bills  and  feet, 
and,  still  more  subtle  griev- 
ance, the  wrong  kind  of  in- 
stincts, leading  them  to  a  dangerous  aquatic  career,  one 
which  the  mother  may  not  enter  to  guide,  guard,  and 
[28] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

teach ;  one  on  the  brink  of  which  she  must  ever  stand, 
uttering  dryshod  warnings  which  are  never  heeded. 
They  grow  used  to  this  strange  order  of  things  after  a 
bit,  it  is  true,  and  are  less  anxious  and  excited.  When 
the  duck-brood  returns  safely  again  and  again  from 
what  the  hen-mother  thinks  will  prove  a  watery  grave, 


Cornelia  and  the  web-footed  Gracchi 

she  becomes  accustomed  to  the  situation,  I  suppose.  I 
find  that  at  night  she  stands  by  the  pond  for  what  she 
considers  a  decent,  self-respecting  length  of  time,  calling 
the  ducklings  out  of  the  water ;  then,  if  they  refuse  to 
come,  the  mother  goes  off  to  bed  and  leaves  them  to 
Providence,  or  Phoebe. 

The  brown  hen  that  we  have  named  Cornelia  is  the 
best  mother,  the  one  who  waits  longest  and  most  pa- 
tiently for  the  web-footed  Gracchi  to  finish  their  swim. 

[29] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

When  a  chick  is  taken  out  of  the  incubytor  (as  Phoebe 
calls  it)  and  refused  by  all  the  other  hens,  Cornelia  gen- 
erally accepts  it,  though  she  had  twelve  of  her  own 
when  we  began  using  her  as  an  orphan  asylum.  "  Wings 
are  made  to  stretch,"  she  seems  to  say  cheerfully,  and 
with  a  kind  glance  of  her  round  eye  she  welcomes  the 
wanderer  and  the  outcast.  She  even  tended  for  a  time 
the  offspring  of  an  absent-minded,  light-headed  pheasant 
who  flew  over  a  four-foot  wall  and  left  her  young  behind 


An  orphan  asylum 

her  to  starve ;  it  was  not  a  New  Pheasant,  either ;  for 
the  most  conservative  and  old-fashioned  of  her  tribe  oc- 
casionally commits  domestic  solecisms  of  this  sort. 

There  is  no  telling  when,  where,  or  how  the  maternal 
instinct  will  assert  itself.  Among  our  Thorny  croft  cats 
is  a  certain  Mrs.  Grey  skin.  She  had  not  been  seen  for 
many  days  and  Mrs.  Heaven  concluded  that  she  had 
hidden  herself  somewhere  with  a  family  of  kittens  ;  but 

[30] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

as  the  supply  of  that  article  with  us  more  than  equals 
the  demand,  we  had  not  searched  for  her  with  especial 
zeal. 

The  other  day  Mrs.  Greyskin  appeared  at  the  dairy 
door,  and  when  she  had  been  fed  Phoebe  and  I  followed 


Phoebe  and  I  followed  her  stealthily 

her  stealthily,  from  a  distance.  She  walked  slowly 
about  as  if  her  mind  were  quite  free  from  harassing 
care,  and  finally  approached  a  deserted  cow-house  where 

[31] 


THE    DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

there  was  a  great  mound  of  straw.  At  this  moment 
she  caught  sight  of  us  and  turned  in  another  direction 
to  throw  us  off  the  scent.  We  persevered  in  our  inten- 
tion of  going  into  her  probable  retreat,  and  were  cau- 
tiously looking  for  some  sign  of  life  in  the  haymow, 
when  we  heard  a  soft  cackle  and  a  ruffling  of  plumage. 
Coming  closer  to  the  sound  we  saw  a  black  hen  brood- 
ing a  nest,  her  bright  bead  eyes  turning  nervously  from 
side  to  side ;  and,  coaxed  out  from  her  protecting  wings 
by  youthful  curiosity,  came  four  kittens,  eyes  wide  open, 
warm,  happy,  ready  for  sport ! 

The  sight  was  irresistible,  and  Phoebe  ran  for  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Heaven  and  the  Square  Baby.  Mother  Hen 
was  not  to  be  embarrassed  or  daunted,  even  if  her  most 
sacred  feelings  were  regarded  in  the  light  of  a  cheap  en- 
tertainment. She  held  her  ground  while  one  of  the  kits 
slid  up  and  down  her  glossy  back  and  two  others,  more 
timid,  crept  underneath  her  breast,  only  daring  to  put 
out  their  pink  noses  !  We  retired  then  for  very  shame 
and  met  Mrs.  Greyskin  in  the  doorway.  This  should 
have  thickened  the  plot,  but  there  is  apparently  no  ri- 
valry nor  animosity  between  the  co-mothers.  We  watch 
them  every  day  now,  through  a  window  in  the  roof. 
Mother  Greyskin  visits  the  kittens  frequently,  lies  down 
beside  the  home  nest,  and  gives  them  their  dinner. 
While  this  is  going  on  Mother  Blackwing  goes  modestly 
away  for  a  bite,  a  sup,  and  a  little  exercise,  returning  to 
[32] 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

the  kittens  when  the  cat  leaves  them.  It  is  pretty  to 
see  her  settle  down  over  the  four,  fat,  furry  dumplings, 
and  they  seem  to  know  no  difference  in  warmth  or  com- 
fort, whichever  mother  is  brooding  them  j  while,  as  their 


Coaxed  out  .  .    .   by  youthful  curiosity 

eyes  have  been  open  for  a  week,  it  can  no  longer  be 
called  a  blind  error  on  their  part. 

When  we  have  closed  all  our  small  hen-nurseries  for 
the  night  there  is  still  the  large  house  inhabited  by  the 
thirty-two  full-grown  chickens  which  Phoebe  calls  the 
broilers.  I  cannot  endure  the  term  and  will  not  use  it. 
"  Now  for  the  April  chicks,"  I  say  every  evening. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  broilers  ?  "  asks  Phoebe. 

"  I  mean  the  big  April  chicks,"  say  I. 

"  Yea,  them  are  the  broilers,"  says  she. 
[33] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

But  is  it  not  disagreeable  enough,  to  be  a  broiler  when 
one's  time  comes,  without  having  the  gridiron  waved  in 
one's  face  for  weeks  beforehand  ? 

The  April  chicks  are  all  lively  and  desirous  of  seeing 
the  world  as  thoroughly  as  possible  before  going  to  roost 
or  broil.  As  a  general  thing,  we  find  in  the  large  house 
sixteen  young  fowls  of  the  contemplative,  flavorless,  re- 
signed-to-the-inevitable  variety;  three  more  (the  same 
three  every  night)  perch  on  the  roof  and  are  driven 
down ;  four  (always  the  same  four)  cling  to  the  edge  of 
the  open  door,  waiting  to  fly  off,  but  not  in,  when  you 
attempt  to  close  it ;  nine  huddle  together  on  a  place  in 
the  grass  about  forty  feet  distant,  where  a  small  coop 
formerly  stood  in  the  prehistoric  ages.  This  small  coop 
was  one  in  which  they  lodged  for  a  fortnight  when  they 
were  younger,  and  when  those  absolutely  indelible  im- 


Nine  huddle  togethe 

[34] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE   GIRL 

pressions  are  formed  of  which  we  read  in  educational 
maxims.  It  was  taken  away  long  since,  but  the  nine 
loyal  (or  stupid)  Casabiancas  cling  to  the  sacred  spot 
where  its  foundations  rested ;  they  accordingly  have  to 
be  caught  and  deposited  bodily  in  the  house,  and  this 


Of  a  'wandering  mind 

requires  strategy,  as  they  note  our  approach  from  a  con- 
siderable distance. 

Finally  all  are  housed  but  two,  the  little  white  cock 
and  the  black  pullet,  who  are  still  impish  and  of  a  wan- 
dering mind.  Though  headed  off  in  every  direction, 
they  fly  into  the  hedges  and  hide  in  the  underbrush. 
We  beat  the  hedge  on  the  other  side,  but  with  no  avail. 
We  dive  into  the  thicket  of  wild  roses,  sweetbriar,  and 
thistles  on  our  hands  and  knees,  coming  out  with  tangled 

[35] 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 


With  tangled  hair,  scratched  noses,  and  no  hens 

hair,  scratched  noses,  and  no  hens.  Then,  when  all  has 
been  done  that  human  ingenuity  can  suggest,  Phoebe 
goes  to  her  late  supper  and  I  .do  sentry  work.  I  stroll 
to  a  safe  distance,  and,  sitting  on  one  of  the  rat-proof 
boxes,  watch  the  bushes  with  an  eagle  eye.  Five  min- 
utes go  by,  ten,  fifteen ;  and  then  out  steps  the  white 
cock,  stealthily  tiptoeing  toward  the  home  into  which 
[36] 


THE    DIARY   OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

he  refused  to  go  at  our  instigation.  In  a  moment  out 
creeps  the  obstinate  little  beast  of  a  black  pullet  from 
the  opposite  clump.  The  wayward  pair  meet  at  their 
own  door,  which  I  have  left  open  a  few  inches.  When 
all  is  still  I  walk  gently  down  the  field,  and,  warned 
by  previous  experiences,  approach  the  house  from  be- 
hind. I  draw  the  door  to  softly  and  quickly ;  but  not 
so  quickly  that  the  evil-minded  and  suspicious  black 
pullet  has  n't  time  to  spring  out,  with  a  make-believe 
squawk  of  fright  that  induces  three  other  blameless 
chickens  to  fly  down  from  their  perches  and  set  the 
whole  flock  in  a  flutter.  Then  I  fall  from  grace  and 
call  her  a  Broiler ;  and  when,  after  some  minutes  of  hot 
pursuit,  I  catch  her  by  falling  over  her  in  the  corner 
by  the  goose-pen,  I  address  her  as  a  fat,  juicy  Broiler 
with  parsley  butter  and  a  bit  of  bacon.  *• 


[37] 


V 

July  10th. 

AT  ten  thirty  or  so  in  the  morning  the  cackling  be- 
gins. I  wonder  exactly  what  it  means  !  Have  the  for- 
est-lovers who  listen  so  respectfully  to,  and  interpret 
so  exquisitely,  the  notes  of  birds  —  have  none  of  them 
made  psychological  investigations  of  the  hen  cackle  ? 
Can  it  be  simple  elation  ?  One  could  believe  that  of  the 
first  few  eggs,  but  a  hen  who  has  laid  two  or  three  hun- 
dred can  hardly  feel  the  same  exuberant  pride  and  joy 
daily.  Can  it  be  the  excitement  incident  to  successful 
achievement  ?  Hardly,  because  the  task  is  so  extremely 
simple.  Eggs  are  more  or  less  alike ;  a  little  larger  or 
smaller,  a  trifle  whiter  or  browner ;  and  almost  sure 
to  be  quite  right  as  to  details ;  that  is,  the  big  end  never 
gets  confused  with  the  little  end,  they  are  always  ovoid 
and  never  spherical,  and  the  yolk  is  always  inside  of 
the  white.  As  for  a  soft-shelled  egg,  it  is  so  rare  an 
occurrence  that  the  fear  of  laying  one  could  not  set  the 
whole  race  of  hens  in  a  panic ;  so  there  really  cannot 
be  any  intellectual  or  emotional  agitation  in  producing 
a  thing  that  might  be  made  by  a  machine.  Can  it  be  sim- 
[38] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

ply  "fussiness";  since  the  people  who  have  the  least 
to  do  commonly  make  the  most  flutter  about  doing  it  ? 

Perhaps  it  is  merely  conversation.  "  Cut-cut-cut-cut- 
cut-vAHcut  /  .  .  .  I  have  finished  my  strictly  fresh  egg, 
have  you  laid  yours  ?  Make  haste,  then,  for  the  cock 
has  found  a  gap  in  the  wire-fence  and  wants  us  to  wander 
in  the  strawberry-bed  .  .  .  Cut-cut-cut-cut-cut-T>As.cut ! 
.  .  .  Every  moment  is  precious,  for  the  Goose  Girl  will 
find  us,  when  she  gathers  the  strawberries  for  her  lunch- 
eon. .  .  .  Cut-cut-cut-cut !  Oh  the  way  out  we  can  find 
sweet  places  to  steal  nests.  .  .  .  Cut-cut-cut  /  ...  I  am 
so  glad  I  am  not  sitting  this  heavenly  morning  ;  it  is  a 
dull  life!" 

A  Lancashire  poultry  man  drifted  into  Barbury  Green 
yesterday.  He  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Heaven 
and  spent  the  night  and  part  of  the  next  day  at  Thorny- 
croft  Farm.  He  possessed  a  deal  of  fowl  philosophy 
and  tells  many  a  good  hen  story,  which,  like  fish  stories, 
draw  rather  largely  on  the  credulity  of  the  audience. 
We  were  sitting  in  the  rick-yard  talking  comfortably 
about  laying  and  cackling  and  kindred  matters  when  he 
took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  told  us  the  following 
tale,  —  not  a  bad  one  if  you  can  translate  the  dialect : 

"  Aw  were  once  towd  as,  if  yo'  could  only  get  th'  hen's 
egg  away  afooar  she  hed  sin  it,  th'  hen  'ud  think  it  hed 
med  a  mistek  an'  sit  deawn  ageean  an'  lay  another. 

"An'  it  seemed  to  me  it  were  a  varra  sensible  way  o' 
[39] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

lukkin7  at  it.  Sooa  aw  set  to  wark  to  mek  a  nest  as  7ud 
tek  a  rise  eawt  o7  th7  hens.  An7  aw  dud  it  too.  Aw 
med  a  nest  wi7  a  fause  bottom,  th7  idea  bein7  as  when  a 
hen  hed  laid,  th7  egg  7ud  drop  through  into  a  box  under- 
neyth. 

"  Aw  felt  varra  preawd  o7  that  nest,  too,  aw  con  tell 
yo7,  an7  aw  remember  aw  felt  quite  excited  when  aw  see 
an  awd  black  Minorca,  th7  best  layer  as  aw  hed,  gooa  an7 
settle  hersel  deawn  i7  th7  nest  an7  get  ready  for  wark. 
Th7  hen  seemed  quite  comfortable  enough,  aw  were  glad 
to  see,  an7  geet  through  th7  operation  beawt  ony  seemin' 
trouble. 

"  Well,  aw  darsay  yo7  know  heaw  a  hen  carries  on  as 
soon  as  it  7s  laid  a  egg.  It  starts  '  chuckin7 '  away  like 
a  showman7s  racket,  an7  after  tekkin7  a  good  luk  at  th' 
egg  to  see  whether  it  7s  a  big  7un  or  a  little  7un,  gooas 
eawt  an7  tells  all  t7  other  hens  abeawt  it. 

"Neaw,  this  black  Minorca,  as  aw  sed,  were  a  owdish 
bird,  an7  maybe  knew  mooar  than  aw  thowt.  Happen 
it  hed  laid  on  a  nest  wi7  a  fause  bottom  afooar,  an7  were 
up  to  th7  trick,  but  whether  or  not,  aw  never  see  a  hen 
luk  mooar  disgusted  i7  mi  life  when  it  lukked  i7  th7  nest 
an7  see  as  it  hed  hed  all  that  trouble  fer  nowt. 

"  It  woked  reawnd  th7  nest  as  if  it  could  n7t  believe  its 
own  eyes. 

"But  it  dud  n7t  do  as  aw  expected.    Aw  expected  as 
it  7ud  sit  deawn  ageean  an7  lay  another. 
[40] 


THE    DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

"But  it  just  gi'e  one  wonderin'  sooart  o'  chuck,  an* 
then,  after  a  long  stare  reawnd  th'  hen-coyt,  it  woked 
eawt,  as  mad  a  hen  as  aw  've  ever  sin.  Aw  fun  eawt 
after,  what  th'  long  stare  meant.  It  were  tekkin'  fare- 
well !  For  if  yo  '11  believe  me  that  hen  never  laid 
another  egg  i'  ony  o'  my  nests. 

"  Varra  like  it  laid  away  in  a  spot  wheear  it  could  hev 
summat  to  luk  at  when  it  hed  done  wark  for  th'  day. 

"Sooa  aw  lost  mi  best  layer  through  mi  acting  an 
aw  Ve  never  invented  owt  sen." 


[41] 


VI 

ONE  learns  to  be  modest  by  living  on  a  poultry  farm, 
for  there  are  constant  expositions  of  the  most  deplorable 
vanity  among  the  cocks.  We  have  a  couple  of  pea-fowl 
who  certainly  are  an  addition  to  the  landscape,  as  they 
step  mincingly  along  the  square  of  turf  we  dignify  by 
the  name  of  lawn.  The  head  of  the  house  has  a  most 
languid  and  self-conscious  strut  and  his  microscopic 
mind  is  fixed  entirely  on  his  splendid  trailing  tail.  If 
I  could  only  master  his  language  sufficiently  to  tell  him 
how  hideously  ugly  the  back  view  of  this  gorgeous  fan 
is,  when  he  spreads  it  for  the  edification  of  the  observer 
in  front  of  him,  he  would  of  course  retort  that  there 
is  a  "  congregation  side  "  to  everything,  but  I  should  at 
least  force  him  into  a  defense  of  his  tail  and  a  confes- 
sion of  its  limitations.  This  would  be  new  and  unplea- 
sant, I  fancy,  and  if  it  produced  no  perceptible  effect 
upon  his  super-arrogant  demeanor,  I  might  remind  him 
that  he  is  likely  to  be  used,  eventually,  for  a  feather 
duster,  unless,  indeed,  the  Heavens  are  superstitious 
and  prefer  to  throw  his  tail  away,  rather  than  bring  ill 
luck  and  the  evil  eye  into  the  house. 
[42] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

The  longer  I  study  the  cock,  whether  Black  Spanish, 
White  Leghorn,  Dorking,  or  the  common  barnyard  fowl, 
the  more  intimately  I  am  acquainted  with  him,  the  less 
I  am  impressed  with  his  character.  He  has  more  pride 


More  pride  of  bearing,  and  less  to  be  proud  of 

of  bearing,  and  less  to  be  proud  of,  than  any  bird  I  know. 
He  is  indolent,  though  he  struts  pompously  over  the 
grass  as  if  the  day  were  all  too  short  for  his  onerous 
duties.  He  calls  the  hens  about  him  when  I  throw  corn 
from  the  basket,  but  many  a  time  I  have  seen  him  swal- 
low hurriedly,  and  in  private,  some  dainty  titbit  he  has 
found  unexpectedly.  He  has  no  particular  chivalry. 
He  gives  no  special  encouragement  to  his  hen  when  he 
becomes  a  prospective  father,  and  renders  little  assist- 
ance when  the  responsibilities  become  actualities.  His 
[43] 


THE    DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

only  personal  message  or  contribution  to  the  world  is 
his  raucous  cock-a-doodle-doo,  which,  being  uttered 
most  frequently  at  dawn,  is  the  most  ill-timed  and  of- 
fensive of  all  musical  notes.  It  is  so  unnecessary  too, 
as  if  the  day  did  n't  come  soon  enough  without  his  warn- 
ing; but  I  suppose  he  is  anxious  to  waken  his  hens  and 
get  them  at  their  daily  task,  and  so  he  disturbs  the  en- 
tire community.  In  short,  I  dislike  him ;  his  swagger, 
his  autocratic  strut,  his  greed,  his  irritating  self-con- 
sciousness, his  endless  parading  of  himself  up  and  down 
in  a  procession  of  one. 

Of  course  his  character  is  largely  the  result  of  poly- 
gamy. His  weaknesses  are  only  what  might  be  expected ; 
and  as  for  the  hens,  I  have  considerable  respect  for  the 
patience,  sobriety,  and  dignity  with  which  they  endure 
an  institution  particularly  offensive  to  all  women.  In 
their  case  they  do  not  even  have  the  sustaining  thought 
of  its  being  an  article  of  religion,  so  they  are  to  be  com- 
plimented the  more. 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  so  feminine  as  a  hen  —  not 
womanly,  simply  feminine.  Those  men  of  insight  who 
write  the  Woman's  Page  in  the  Sunday  newspapers 
study  hens  more  than  women,  I  sometimes  think  j  at  any 
rate,  their  favorite  types  are  all  present  on  this  poultry 
farm. 

Some  families  of  White  Leghorns  spend  most  of  their 
time  in  the  rick-yard,  where  they  look  extremely  pretty, 
[44] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

their  slender  white  shapes  and  red  combs  and  wattles 
well  set  off  by  the  background  of  golden  hayricks. 
There  is  a  great  oak-tree  in  one  corner,  with  a  tall  lad- 
der leaning  against  its  trunk,  and  a  capital  roosting- 
place  on  a  long  branch  running  at  right  angles  with  the 
ladder.  I  try  to  spend  a  quarter  of  an  hour  there 
every  night  before  supper,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing the  feathered  "  women-folks  "  mount  that  ladder. 

A  dozen  of  them  surround  the  foot,  waiting  restlessly 
for  their  turn.  One  little  white  lady  flutters  up  on  the 
lowest  round  and  perches  there  until  she  reviews  the 
past,  faces  the  present,  and  forecasts  the  future ;  during 
which  time  she  is  gathering  courage  for  the  next  jump. 
She  cackles,  takes  up  one  foot  and  then  the  other,  tilts 
back  and  forth,  holds  up  her  skirts  and  drops  them 
again,  cocks  her  head  nervously  to  see  whether  they  are 
all  staring  at  her  below,  gives  half  a  dozen  preliminary 
springs  which  mean  nothing,  declares  she  can't  and 
won't  go  up  any  faster,  unties  her  bonnet  strings  and 
pushes  back  her  hair,  pulls  down  her  dress  to  cover  her 
toes,  and  finally  alights  on  the  next  round,  swaying  to 
and  fro  until  she  gains  her  equilibrium,  when  she  pro- 
ceeds to  enact  the  same  scene  over  again. 

All  this  time  the  hens  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  are 
criticising  her  methods  and  exclaiming  at  the  length  of 
time  she  requires  in  mounting ;  while  the  cocks  stroll 
about  the  yard  keeping  one  eye  on  the  ladder,  picking 

[45] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 


up  a  seed  here  and  there,  and  giving  a  masculine  sneer 
now  and  then  at  the  too-familiar  scene.  They  approach 
the  party  at  intervals,  but  only  to  remark  that  it  always 
makes  a  man  laugh  to  see  a  woman  go  up  a  ladder. 
The  next  hen,  stirred  to  the  depths  by  this  speech,  flies 
up  entirely  too  fast,  loses  her  head,  tumbles  off  the  top 
round,  and  has  to  make  the  ascent  over  again.  Thus  it 
goes  on  and  on,  this  petite  comedie  humaine,  and  I  could 

enjoy  it  with  my  whole 
heart  if  Mr.  Heaven  did 
not  insist  on  sharing 
the  spectacle  with  me. 
He  is  so  inexpressibly 
dull,  so  destitute  of 
humor,  that  I  did  not 
think  it  likely  he  would 
see  in  the  performance 
anything  more  than  a 
flock  of  hens  going  up 
a  ladder  to  roost.  But 
he  did ;  for  there  is  no 
man  so  blind  that  he 
cannot  see  the  follies 
of  women;  and,  when 
he  forgot  himself  so  far 


Mr.  Heaven  discomfited 


as  to  utter  a  few  genial,  silly,  well-worn  reflections  upon 

femininity  at  large,  I  turned  upon  him  and  revealed  to 

[46] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

him  some  of  the  characteristics  of  his  own  sex,  gained 
from  an  exhaustive  study  of  the  barn-yard  fowl  of  the 
masculine  gender.  He  went  into  the  house  discomfited, 
though  chuckling  a  little  at  my  vehemence ;  but  at  least 
I  have  made  it  forever  impossible  for  him  to  watch  his 
hens  without  an  occasional  glance  at  the  cocks. 


[47] 


vn 

July  12th. 

OH!  the  pathos  of  a  poultry  farm!  Catherine  of 
Aragon,  the  black  Spanish  hen  that  stole  her  nest, 
brought  out  nine  chicks  this  morning,  and  the  business- 
like and  marble-hearted  Phoebe  has  taken  them  away 
and  given  them  to  another  hen  who  has  only  seven. 
Two  mothers  cannot  be  wasted  on  these  small  families 
—  it  would  not  be  profitable;  and  the  older  mother, 
having  been  tried  and  found  faithful  over  seven,  has 
been  given  the  other  nine  and  accepted  them.  What  of 
the  bereft  one?  She  is  miserable  and  stands  about 
moping  and  forlorn,  but  it  is  no  use  fighting  against  the 
inevitable ;  hens'  hearts  must  obey  the  same  laws  that 
govern  the  rotation  of  crops.  Catherine  of  Aragon  feels 
her  lot  a  bitter  one  just  now,  but  in  time  she  will  suc- 
cumb, and  lay,  which  is  more  to  the  point. 

We  have  had  a  very  busy  evening,  beginning  with 
the  rats'  supper  —  delicate  sandwiches  of  bread  and 
butter  spread  with  Paris  green. 

We  have  a  new  brood  of  seventeen  ducklings  just 
hatched  this  afternoon.  When  we  came  to  the  nest  the 
yellow  and  brown  bunches  of  down  and  fluff  were  peep- 
[48] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

ing  out  from  under  the  lien's  wings  in  the  prettiest 
fashion  in  the  world. 

"  It 's  a  noble  hen ! "  I  said  to  Phoebe. 

"  She  ain't  so  nowble  as  she  looks/7  Phoebe  answered, 
grimly.  "  It  was  another  'en  that  brooded  these  eggs 
for  near  on  three  weeks  and  then  this  big  one  come 
along  with  a  fancy  she'd  like  a  family  'erself  if  she 
could  steal  one  without  too  much  trouble ;  so  she  drove 
the  rightful  'en  off  the  nest,  finished  up  the  last  few 
days,  and  'ere  she  is  in  possession  of  the  ducklings ! " 

"  Why  don't  you  take  them  away  from  her  and  give 
them  back  to  the  first  hen,  who  did  most  of  the  work  ?  " 
I  asked,  with  some  spirit. 

"Like  as  not  she  wouldn't  tyke  them  now,"  said 
Phoebe,  as  she  lifted  the  hen  off  the  broken  egg-shells 
and  moved  her  gently  into  a  clean  box,  on  a  bed  of 
fresh  hay.  We  put  food  and  drink  within  reach  of  the 
family,  and  very  proud  and  handsome  that  highway 
robber  of  a  hen  looked,  as  she  stretched  her  wings  over 
the  seventeen  easily  earned  ducklings. 

Going  back  to  the  old  nesting-box,  I  found  one  egg 
forgotten  among  the  shells.  It  was  still  warm,  and  I 
took  it  up  to  run  across  the  field  with  it  to  Phoebe.  It 
was  heavy,  and  the  carrying  of  it  was  a  queer  sensation, 
inasmuch  as  it  squirmed  and  "  yipped  "  vociferously  in 
transit,  threatening  so  unmistakably  to  hatch  in  my 
hand  that  I  was  decidedly  nervous.  The  intrepid  little 

[49] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

youngster  burst  his  shell  as  he  touched  Phoebe's  apron, 
and  has  become  the  strongest  and  handsomest  of  the 
brood. 

All  this  tending  of  downy  young  things,  this  feeding 
and  putting  to  bed,  this  petting  and  nursing  and  rear- 
ing, is  such  pretty,  comforting  woman7  s  work.  I  am 
sure  Phoebe  will  make  a  better  wife  to  the  carrier  for 
having  been  a  poultry  maid,  and  though  good  enough 
for  most  practical  purposes  when  I  came  here,  I  am  an 
infinitely  better  woman  now.  I  am  afraid  I  was  not 
particularly  nice  the  last  few  days  at  the  Hydro.  Such 
a  lot  of  dull,  prosy,  inquisitive,  bothering  old  tabbies ! 
Aunt  Margaret  furnishing  imaginary  symptoms  enough 
to  keep  a  fond  husband  and  two  trained  nurses  dis- 
tracted ;  a  man  I  had  never  encouraged  in  my  life  com- 
ing to  stay  in  the  neighborhood  and  turning  up  daily 
for  rejection;  another  man  taking  rooms  at  the  very- 
hotel  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  making  my  life  a 
burden ;  and  on  the  heels  of  both,  a  widow  of  thirty- 
five  in  full  chase  !  Small  wonder  I  thought  it  more  dig- 
nified to  retire  than  to  compete,  and  so  I  did. 

I  need  not,  however,  have  cut  the  threads  that  bound 
me  to  Oxenbridge  with  such  particularly  sharp  scissors, 
nor  given  them  such  a  vicious  snap ;  for,  so  far  as  I  can 
observe,  the  little  world  of  which  I  imagined  myself  the 
sun  continues  to  revolve,  and,  probably,  about  some 
other  centre.  I  can  well  imagine  who  has  taken  up 
[50] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 


Threatened  .    .   .   to  hatch  in  my  hand 

that  delightful  but  somewhat  exposed  and  responsible 
position — it  would  be  just  like  her ! 

I  am  perfectly  happy  where  I  am;  it  is  not  that; 
but  it  seems  so  strange  that  they  can  be  perfectly  happy 
without  me,  after  all  that  they  —  after  all  that  was  said 

[51] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

on  the  subject  not  many  days  ago.  Nothing  turns  out 
as  one  expects.  There  have  been  no  hot  pursuits,  no 
rewards  offered,  no  bills  posted,  no  printed  placards 
issued  describing  the  beauty  and  charms  of  a  young 
person  who  supposed  herself  the  cynosure  of  every  eye. 
Heigh  ho !  What  does  it  matter,  after  all  ?  One  can 
always  be  a  Goose  Girl ! 

I  wonder  if  the  hen  mother  is  quite,  quite  satisfied 
with  her  ducklings !  Do  you  suppose  the  fact  of  hatch- 
ing and  brooding  them  breaks  down  all  the  sense  of  dif- 
ference ?  Does  she  not  sometimes  reflect  that  if  her  chil- 
dren were  the  ordinary  sort,  and  not  these  changelings, 
she  would  be  enjoying  certain  pretty  little  attentions 
dear  to  a  mother's  heart  ?  The  chicks  would  be  peck- 
ing the  food  off  her  broad  beak  with  their  tiny  ones,  and 
jumping  on  her  back  to  slide  down  her  glossy  feathers. 
They  would  be  far  nicer  to  cuddle,  too,  so  small  and 
graceful  and  light;  the  changelings  are  a  trifle  solid 
and  brawny.  And  personally,  just  as  a  matter  of 
taste,  would  she  not  prefer  wee,  round,  glancing  heads, 
and  pointed  beaks,  peeping  from  under  her  wings,  to 
these  teaspoon-shaped  things  larger  than  her  own  ?  I 
wonder ! 

We  are  training  fourteen  large  young  chickens  to  sit 
on  the  perches  in  their  new  house,  instead  of  huddling 
together  on  the  floor  as  has  been  their  habit,  because 

[62] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE   GIRL 


we  discover  rat-holes  under  the  wire  flooring  occasion- 
ally, and  fear  that  toes  may  be  bitten.  At  nine  o'clock 
Phoebe  and  I  lift  the  chickens  one  by  one,  and,  as  it 
were,  glue  them  to  their  perches,  squawking.  Three 


One  can  always  be  a  Goose  Girl 

nights  have  we  gone  patiently  through  with  this  per- 
formance, but  they  have  not  learned  the  lesson.  The 
ducks  and  geese  are,  however,  greatly  improved  by  the 
application  of  advanced  educational  methods,  and  the 
regime  of  perfect  order  and  system  instituted  by  Me 
begins  to  show  results. 

There  is  no  more  violent  splashing  and  pebbling, 
[53] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

racing,  chasing,  separating.  The  pole,  indeed,  still  has 
to  be  produced,  but  at  the  first  majestic  wave  of  my 
hand  they  scuttle  toward  the  shore.  The  geese  turn  to 
the  right,  cross  the  rick-yard  and  go  to  their  pen ;  the 
May  ducks  turn  to  the  left  for  their  coops,  the  June 
ducks  follow  the  hens  to  the  top  meadow,  and  even  the 
idiot  gosling  has  an  inspiration  now  and  then  and 
stumbles  on  his  own  habitation. 

Mrs.  Heaven  has  no  reverence  for  the  principles  of 
Comenius,  Pestalozzi,  or  Herbert  Spencer  as  applied  to 


f 


The  geese  .    .    .   cross  the  rick-yard 

poultry,  and  when  the  ducks  and  geese  came  out  of  the 
pond  badly  the  other  night  and  went  waddling  and 
tumbling  and  hissing  all  over  creation,  did  not  approve 
of  my  sending  them  back  into  the  pond  to  start  afresh. 

[54] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

"  I  consider  it  a  great  waste  of  time,  of  good  time, 
miss,"  she  said ;  "  and,  after  all,  do  you  consider  that 
educated  poultry  will  be  any  better  eating,  or  that  it 
will  lay  more  than  one  egg  a  day,  miss  ?  " 

I  have  given  the  matter  some  attention,  and  I  fear 
Mrs.  Heaven  is  right.  A.  duck,  a  goose,  or  a  hen  in 
which  I  have  developed  a  larger  brain,  implanted  a 
sense  of  duty,  or  instilled  an  idea  of  self-government,  is 
likely,  on  the  whole,  to  be  leaner,  not  fatter.  There  is 
nothing  like  obeying  the  voice  of  conscience  for  taking 
the  flesh  off  one's  bones ;  and,  speaking  of  conscience, 
Phoebe,  whose  metaphysics  are  of  the  farm  farmy,  says 
that  hers  "  felt  like  a  hunlaid  hegg  for  dyes  "  after  she 
had  jilted  the  postman. 

As  to  the  eggs,  I  am  sure  the  birds  will  go  on  laying 
one  a  day,  for  ?t  is  their  nature  to.  Whether  the  pro- 
duct of  the  intelligent,  conscious,  logical  fowl  will  be  as 
rich  in  quality  as  that  of  the  uneducated  and  barbaric 
bird,  I  cannot  say ;  but  it  ought  at  least  to  be  equal  to 
the  Denmark  egg  eaten  now  by  all  Londoners ;  and  if? 
perchance,  left  uneaten,  it  is  certain  to  be  a  very  supe- 
rior wife  and  mother. 

While  we  are  discussing  the  subject  of  educating 
poultry,  I  confess  that  the  case  of  Cannibal  Ann  gives 
me  much  anxiety.  Twice  in  her  short  career  has  she 
been  under  suspicion  of  eating  her  own  eggs,  but 
Phoebe  has  never  succeeded  in  catching  her  inflagrante 
[55] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 


delicto.     That  eminent  detective  service  was  reserved 
for  me,  and  I  have  been  haunted  by  the  picture  ever 
since.     It  is  an  awful  sight  to  witness  a  hen  gulp  her 
own  newly  laid  fresh   egg,  yolk, 
white,  shell,  and  all ;  to  realize  that 
you   have   fed,   sheltered,   chased, 
and  occasionally  run  in,  a  being 
possessed  of  no  moral  sense,  a  be- 
ing likely  to  set  a  bad  example, 
inculcate  vicious  habits  among 
her  innocent  sisters,  and  low- 
er the  standard  of  an  entire 
poultry  yard.     The  Young 
Poultry  Keeper's  Friend 
gives  us  no  advice  on 
this  topic,  and  we  do 
not    know   whether 
to     treat     Cannibal 
Ann   as  the  victim 
of  a  disease,  or  as  a 


Poor  little  chap,   .    .    . 
fyvorite  " 


e  never  cwas  a 


confirmed   criminal ; 
whether  to  adminis- 
ter remedies,  or  cut  her  off  in  the  flower  of  her  youth. 

We  have  had  a  sad  scene  to-night.  A  chick  has  been 
ailing  all  day,  and  when  we  shut  up  the  brood  we  found 
him  dead  in  a  corner. 

Phoebe  put  him  on  the  ground  while  she  busied  her- 
[66] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

self  about  the  coop.  The  other  chicks  came  out  and 
walked  about  the  dead  one  again  and  again,  eyeing  him 
curiously. 

"  Poor  little  chap ! "  said  Phoebe.  "  'E  7s  never  'ad  a 
mother !  7E  was  an  incubytor  chicken,  and  wherever  I 
took  'im  ?e  was  picked  at.  There  was  somethink  wrong 
with  'im ;  'e  never  was  a  fyvorite ! " 

I  put  the  fluffy  body  into  a  hole  in  the  turf,  and 
strewed  a  handful  of  grass  over  him.  "  Sad  little  epi- 
taph ! "  I  thought.  "  He  never  was  a  fyvorite ! " 


[57] 


VIII 

July  13th. 

I  LIKE  to  watch  the  Belgian  hares  eating  their  trifo- 
lium  or  pea-pods  or  grass ;  graceful  gentle  things  they 
are,  crowding  about  Mr.  Heaven,  and  standing  prettily, 
not  greedily,  on  their  hind  legs,  to  reach  for  the  clover, 
their  delicate  nostrils  and  whiskers  all  a-quiver  with 
excitement. 

As  I  look  out  of  my  window  in  the  dusk  I  can  see 
one  of  the  mothers  galloping  across  the  inclosure,  the 
soft  white  lining  of  her  tail  acting  as  a  beacon-light  to 
the  eight  infant  hares  following  her,  a  quaint  procession 
of  eight  white  spots  in  a  glancing  line.  In  the  darkest 
night  those  baby  creatures  could  follow  their  mother 
through  grass  or  hedge  or  thicket,  and  she  would  need 
no  warning  note  to  show  them  where  to  flee  in  case  of 
danger.  "All  you  have  to  do  is  to  follow  the  white 
night-light  that  I  keep  in  the  lining  of  my  tail,"  she 
says,  when  she  is  giving  her  first  maternal  lectures; 
and  it  seems  a  beneficent  provision  of  Nature.  To  be 
sure,  Mr.  Heaven  took  his  gun  and  went  out  to  shoot 
wild  rabbits  to-day,  and  I  noted  that  he  marked  them 
by  those  same  self-betraying  tails,  as  they  scuttled  to- 

[58] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

ward  their  holes  or  leaped  toward  the  protecting  cover 
of  the  hedge ;  so  it  does  not  appear  whether  Nature  is 
on  the  side  of  the  farmer  or  the  rabbit.  . 


Mr.  Heaven  .   .    .   'went  out  to  shoot  ivild  rabbits 

There  is  as  much  comedy  and  as  much  tragedy  in 
poultry  life  as  anywhere,  and  already  I  see  rifts  within 
lutes.  We  have  in  a  cage  a  French  gentleman  par- 
tridge married  to  a  Hungarian  lady  of  defective  sight. 
He  paces  back  and  forth  in  the  pen  restlessly,  anything 
[59] 


THE    DIARY    OP    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

but  content  with  the  domestic  fireside.  One  can  see 
plainly  that  he  is  devoted  to  the  Boulevards,  and  that 
if  left  to  his  own  inclinations  he  would  never  have 
chosen  any  spouse  but  a  thorough  Parisienne. 

The  Hungarian  lady  is  blind  of  one  eye,  from  some 
stray  shot,  I  suppose.  She  is  melancholy  at  all  times 
and  occasionally  goes  so  far  as  to  beat  her  head  against 
the  wire  netting.  If  liberated,  Mr.  Heaven  says  that 
her  blindness  would  only  expose  her  to  death  at  the 
hands  of  the  first  sportsman,  and  it  always  seems  to 
me  as  if  she  knows  this,  and  is  ever  trying  to  decide 
whether  a  loveless  marriage  is  any  better  than  the  tomb. 

Then,  again,  the  great,  gray  gander  is,  for  some  mys- 
terious reason,  out  of  favor  with  the  entire  family.  He 
is  a  noble  and  amiable  bird,  by  far  the  best  all-round 
character  in  the  flock,  for  dignity  of  mien  and  large- 
minded  common  sense.  What  is  the  treatment  vouch- 
safed to  this  blameless  husband  and  father  ?  One  that 
puts  anybody  out  of  sorts  with  virtue  and  its  scant 
rewards.  To  begin  with,  the  others  will  not  allow 
him  to  go  into  the  pond.  There  is  an  organized  cabal 
against  it,  and  he  sits  solitary  on  the  bank,  calm  and 
resigned,  but,  naturally,  a  trifle  hurt.  His  favorite 
retreat  is  a  tiny  sort  of  island  on  the  edge  of  the  pool 
under  the  alders,  where  with  his  bent  head,  and  red- 
rimmed  philosophic  eyes  he  regards  his  own  breast  and 
dreams  of  happier  days.  When  the  others  walk  into 

[60] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

the  country  twenty-three  of  them  keep  together,  and 
Ihird  Alane  (as  I  have  named  him  from  the  old  ballad) 
walks  by  himself.  The  lack  of  harmony  is  so  evident 
here,  and  the  slight  so  intentional  and  direct,  that  it 
almost  moves  me  to  tears.  The  others  walk  soberly, 


Out  of  favor  'with  the  entire  family 

always  in  couples,  but  even  Burd  Alane' s  rightful  spouse 
is  on  the  side  of  the  majority,  and  avoids  her  consort. 

What  is  the  nature  of  his  offense  ?     There  can  be  no 
connubial  jealousies,  I  judge,  as  geese  are  strictly  mono- 

[61] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

gamous,  and  having  chosen  a  partner  of  their  joys  and 
sorrows  they  cleave  to  each  other  until  death  or  some 
other  inexorable  circumstance  does  them  part.  If  they 
are  ever  mistaken  in  their  choice  and  think  they  might 
have  done  better,  the  world  is  none  the  wiser.  Burd 
Alane  looks  in  good  condition,  but  Phoebe  thinks  he  is 
not  quite  himself,  and  that  some  day  when  he  is  in 
greater  strength  he  will  turn  on  his  foes  and  rend  them, 
regaining  thus  his  lost  prestige,  for  formerly  he  was 
king  of  the  flock. 

Phoebe  has  not  a  vestige  of  sentiment.  She  just 
asked  me  if  I  would  have  a  duckling  or  a  gosling  for 
dinner ;  that  there  were  two  quite  ready  —  the  brown 
and  yellow  duckling  that  is  the  last  to  leave  the  water 
at  night,  and  the  white  gosling  that  never  knows  his 
own  'ouse.  Which  would  I  'ave,  and  would  1 7ave  it 
with  sage  and  onion  ? 

Now,  had  I  found  a  duckling  on  the  table  at  dinner 
I  should  have  eaten  it  without  thinking  at  all,  or  with 
the  thought  that  it  had  come  from  Barbury  Green.  But 
eat  a  duckling  that  I  have  stoned  out  of  the  pond,  pur- 
sued up  the  bank,  chased  behind  the  wire  netting, 
caught,  screaming,  in  a  corner  and  carried  struggling 
to  his  bed?  Feed  upon  an  idiot  gosling  that  I  have 
found  in  nine  different  coops  on  nine  successive  nights 
—  in  with  the  newly  hatched  chicks,  the  half-grown 

[62] 


THE    DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

pullets,  the  sitting  hen,  the  "  invaleed  goose,"  the  drake 
with  the  gapes,  the  old  ducks  in  the  pen  ?  —  Eat  a  gos- 
ling that  I  have  caught  and  put  in  with  his  brothers 
and  sisters  (whom  he  never  recognizes)  so  frequently 
and  regularly  that  I  am  familiar  with  every  joint  in  his 
body? 

In  the  first  place,  with  my  own  small  bump  of  local- 
ity and  lack  of  geography,  I  would  never  willingly  con- 
sume a  creature  who  might,  by  some  strange  process 
of  assimilation,  make  me  worse  in  this  respect ;  in  the 
second  place,  I  should  have  to  be  ravenous  indeed  to 
sit  down  deliberately  and  make  a  meal  of  an  intimate 
friend,  no  matter  if  I  had  not  a  high  opinion  of  his  in- 
telligence. I  should  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  Square 
Baby,  stuffed  with  sage  and  onion  and  garnished  with 
green  apple-sauce,  as  the  yellow  duckling  or  the  idiot 
gosling. 

Mrs.  Heaven  has  just  called  me  into  her  sitting-room 
ostensibly  to  ask  me  to  order  breakfast,  but  really  for 
the  pleasure  of  conversation.  Why  she  should  inquire 
whether  I  would  relish  some  gammon  of  bacon  with 
eggs,  when  she  knows  that  there  has  not  been,  is  not 
now,  and  never  will  be,  anything  but  gammon  of  bacon 
with  eggs,  is  more  than  I  can  explain. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  my  flowers,  miss?"  she 
asks,  folding  her  plump  hands  over  her  white  apron. 
[63] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

"They  are  looking  beautiful  this  morning.  I  am  so 
fond  of  potted  plants,  of  plants  in  pots.  Look  at  these 
geraniums!  Now,  I  consider  that  pink  one  a  perfect 
bloom ;  yes,  a  perfect  bloom.  This  is  a  fine  red  one,  is 
it  not,  miss  ?  Especially  fine,  don't  you  think  ?  The 
trouble  with  the  red  variety  is  that  they  're  apt  to  get 
'  bobby '  and  have  to  be  washed  regularly  ;  quite  bobby 
they  do  get  indeed,  I  assure  you.  That  white  one  has 
just  gone  out  of  blossom,  and  it  was  really  wonderful. 
You  could  'ardly  have  told  it  from  a  paper  flower,  miss, 
not  from  a  white  paper  flower.  My  plants  are  my  chil- 
dren nowadays,  since  Albert  Edward  is  my  only  care. 
I  have  been  the  mother  of  eleven  children,  miss,  all  of 
them  living,  so  far  as  I  know ;  I  know  nothing  to  the 
contrary.  I  'ope  you  are  not  wearying  of  this  solitary 
place,  miss  ?  It  will  grow  upon  you,  I  am  sure,  as  it 
did  upon  Mrs.  Pollock,  with  all  her  peculiar  fancies, 
and  as  it  'as  grown  upon  us.  —  We  formerly  had  a 
butcher's  shop  in  Bumngton,  and  it  was  naturally  a 
great  responsibility.  Mr.  Heaven's  nerves  are  not 
strong,  and  at  last  he  wanted  a  life  of  more  quietude, 
more  quietude  was  what  he  craved.  The  life  of  a  retail 
butcher  is  a  most  exciting  and  wearying  one.  Nobody 
satisfied  with  their  meat ;  as  if  it  mattered  in  a  world 
of  change !  Everybody  complaining  of  too  much  bone 
or  too  little  fat ;  nobody  wishing  tough  chops  or  cutlets, 
but  always  seeking  after  fine  joints,  when  it 's  against 
[64] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

reason  and  nature  that  all  joints  should  be  juicy  and  all 
cutlets  tender;  always  complaining  if  livers  are  not 


The  life  .   .   .   is  a  most  exciting  and  'wearying  on 

sent  with  every  fowl,  always  asking  you  to  remember 
the  trimmin's,  always  wanting  their  beef  well  ?ung,  and 
then  if  you  ?ang  it  a  minute  too  long  it  7s  left  on  your 
7ands  !  I  often  used  to  say  to  Mr.  Heaven,  yes,  many  ?s 

[65] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

the  time  I  Ve  said  it,  that  if  people  would  think  more 
of  the  great  'ereafter  and  less  about  their  own  little 
stomachs,  it  would  be  a  deal  better  for  them,  yes,  a  deal 
better,  and  make  it  much  more  comfortable  for  the 
butchers ! " 


Burd  Alane  has  had  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour  to-day. 

His  spouse  took  a  brief  promenade  with  him.     To  be 

sure,  it  was  during  an  absence  of  the  flock  on  the  other 


His  spouse  took  a  brief  promenade  'with  him 

side  of  the  hedge,  so  that  the  moral  effect  of  her  spasm 
of  wifely  loyalty  was  quite  lost  upon  them.  I  strongly 
suspect  that  she  would  not  have  granted  anything  but 
a  secret  interview.  What  a  petty,  weak,  ignoble  char- 

[66] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

acter !  I  really  don't  like  to  think  so  badly  of  any 
fellow  creature  as  I  am  forced  to  think  of  that  politic, 
time-serving,  pusillanimous  goose.  I  believe  she  laid 
the  egg  that  produced  the  idiot  gosling  ! 


[67] 


IX 


HEBE  follows  the  true  story  of  Sir  Muscovy  Drake, 
the  Lady  Blanche,  and  Miss  Mallardina  Crippletoes. 

Phoebe's  flock  consisted  at  first  mostly  of  Brown 
Mallards,  but  a  friend  gave  her  a  sitting  of  eggs  war. 
ranted  to  produce  a  most  beautiful  variety  of  white 
ducks.  They  were  hatched  in  due  time,  but  proved 
hard  to  raise,  till  at  length  there  was  only  one  survivor, 
of  such  uncommon  grace  and  beauty  that  we  called  her 
the  Lady  Blanche.  Presently  a  neighbor  sold  Phoebe 
his  favorite  Muscovy  drake,  and  these  two  splendid 
creatures  by  "  natural  selection  "  disdained  to  notice  the 
rest  of  the  flock,  but  forming  a  close  friendship,  wan- 
dered in  the  pleasant  paths  of  duckdom  together,  swim- 
ming and  eating  quite  apart  from  the  others. 

In  the  brown  flock  there  was  one  unfortunate,  mis- 
shapen from  the  egg,  quite  lame,  and  with  no  smooth- 
ness of  plumage ;  but  on  that  very  account,  apparently, 
or  because  she  was  too  weak  to  resist  them,  the  others 
treated  her  cruelly,  biting  her  and  pushing  her  away 
from  the  food. 

One  day  it  happened  that  the  two  ducks  —  Sir  Mus- 
[68] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

covy  and  Lady  Blanche  —  had  come  up  from  the  water 
before  the  others,  and  having  taken  their  repast  were 
sitting  together  under  the  shade  of  a  flowering  currant- 
bush,  when  they  chanced  to  see  poor  Miss  Crippletoes 
very  badly  used  and  crowded  away  from  the  dish.  Sir 
Muscovy  rose  to  his  feet ;  a  few  rapid  words  seemed  to 
pass  between  him  and  his  mate,  and  then  he  fell  upon 
the  other  drake  and  the  heartless  minions  who  had  per- 
secuted the  helpless  one,  drove  them  far  away  out  of 
sight,  and,  returning,  went  to  the  corner  where  the  vic- 
tim was  cowering,  her  face  to  the  wall.  He  seemed  to 
whisper  to  her,  or  in  some  way  to  convey  to  her  a  sense 
of  protection  ;  for  after  a  few  moments  she  tremblingly 
went  with  him  to  the  dish,  and  hurriedly  ate  her  dinner 
while  he  stood  by,  repulsing  the  advances  of  the  few 
brown  ducks  who  remained  near  and  seemed  inclined 
to  attack  her. 

When  she  had  eaten  enough  Lady  Blanche  joined 
them  and  they  went  down  the  hill  together  to  their 
favorite  swimming-place.  After  that,  Miss  Crippletoes 
always  followed  a  little  behind  her  protectors,  and  thus 
shielded  and  fed  she  grew  stronger  and  well-feathered, 
though  she  was  always  smaller  than  she  should  have 
been  and  had  a  lowly  manner,  keeping  a  few  steps  in 
the  rear  of  her  superiors  and  sitting  at  some  distance 
from  their  noon  resting-place. 

Phoebe  noticed  after  a  while  that  Lady  Blanche  was 
[69] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

seldom  to  be  seen,  and  Sir  Muscovy  and  Miss  Crip- 
pletoes  often  came  to  their  meals  -without  her.  The 
would-be  mother  refused  to  inhabit  the  house  Phoebe 
had  given  her,  and  for  a  long  time  the  place  she  had 
chosen  for  her  sitting  could  not  be  found.  At  length 
the  Square  Baby  discovered  her  in  a  most  ideal  spot. 
A  large  boulder  had  dropped  years  ago  into  the  brook 
that  fills  our  duck-pond;  dropped  and  split  in  halves 
with  the  two  smooth  walls  leaning  away  from  each 
other.  A  grassy  bank  towered  behind,  and  on  either 
side  of  the  opening,  tall  bushes  made  a  miniature  forest 
where  the  romantic  mother  could  brood  her  treasures 
while  her  two  guardians  enjoyed  the  water  close  by  her 
retreat. 

All  this  happened  before  my  coming  to  Thornycroft 
Farm,  but  it  was  I  who  named  the  hero  and  heroines  of 
the  romance  when  Phoebe  had  told  me  all  the  particu- 
lars. Yesterday  morning  I  was  sitting  by  my  open 
window.  It  was  warm,  sunny,  and  still,  but  in  the 
country  sounds  travel  far,  and  I  could  hear  fowl  con- 
versation in  various  parts  of  the  poultry  yard  as  well 
as  in  all  the  outlying  bits  of  territory  occupied  by  our 
feathered  friends.  Hens  have  only  three  words  and 
a  scream  in  their  language,  but  ducks,  having  more 
thoughts  to  express,  converse  quite  fluently,  so  fluently, 
in  fact,  that  it  reminds  me  of  dinner  at  the  Hydro- 
pathic Hotel.  I  fancy  I  have  learned  to  distinguish 

[70] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

seven  separate  sounds,  each  varied  by  degrees  of  inten- 
sity, and  with  upward  or  downward  inflections  like  the 
Chinese  tongue. 

In  the  distance,  then,  I  heard  the  faint  voice  of  a  duck 
calling  as  if  breathless  and  excited.  While  I  wondered 
what  was  happening,  I  saw  Miss  Crippletoes  struggling 
up  the  steep  bank  above  the  duck-pond.  It  was  the 
quickest  way  from  the  water  to  the  house,  but  difficult 
for  the  little  lame  webbed  feet.  When  she  reached  the 
level  grass  sward  she  sank  down  a  moment,  exhausted ; 
but  when  she  could  speak  again  she  cried  out,  a  sharp 
staccato  call,  and  ran  forward. 

Instantly  she  was  answered  from  a  distant  knoll, 
where  for  some  reason  Sir  Muscovy  loved  to  retire  for 
meditation.  The  cries  grew  lower  and  softer  as  the 
birds  approached  each  other,  and  they  met  at  the  corner 
just  under  my  window.  Instantly  they  put  their  two 
bills  together  and  the  loud  cries  changed  to  confiding 
murmurs.  Evidently  some  hurried  questions  and  an- 
swers passed  between  them,  and  then  Sir  Muscovy 
waddled  rapidly  by  the  quickest  path,  Miss  Crippletoes 
following  him  at  a  slower  pace,  and  both  passed  out  of 
sight,  using  their  wings  to  help  their  feet  down  the 
steep  declivity.  The  next  morning,  when  I  wakened 
early,  my  first  thought  was  to  look  out,  and  there  on 
the  sunny  greensward  where  they  were  accustomed  to 
be  fed,  Sir  Muscovy,  Lady  Blanche,  and  their  humble 

[71] 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

maid,  Mallardina  Crippletoes,  were  scattering  their  own 
breakfast  before  the  bills  of  twelve  beautiful  golden 
balls  of  ducklings.  The  little  creatures  could  never 
have  climbed  the  bank,  but  must  have  started  from 
their  nest  at  dawn,  coming  round  by  the  brook  to  the 
level  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  and  so  by  slow  degrees 
up  to  the  house. 

Judging  from  what  I  heard  and  knew  of  their  habits 
I  am  sure  the  excitement  of  the  previous  morning  was 
occasioned  by  the  hatching  of  the  eggs,  and  that  Lady 
Blanche  had  hastily  sent  her  friend  to  call  Sir  Muscovy, 
the  family  remaining  together  until  they  could  bring 
the  babies  with  them  and  display  their  beauty  to  Phoebe 
and  me. 


[72] 


X 

July  14th. 

WE  are  not  wholly  without  the  pleasures  of  the  town 
in  Barbury  Green.  Once  or  twice  in  a  summer,  late  on 
a  Saturday  afternoon,  a  procession  of  red  and  yellow 
vans  drives  into  a  field  near  the  centre  of  the  village. 
By  the  time  the  vans  are  unpacked  all  the  children  in 
the  community  are  surrounding  the  gate  of  entrance. 
There  is  rifle-shooting,  there  is  fortune-telling,  there  are 
games  of  pitch  and  toss,  and  swings,  and  French  baga- 
telle; and,  to  crown  all,  a  wonderful  orchestrion  that 
goes  by  steam.  The  water  is  boiled  for  the  public's 
tea,  and  at  the  same  time  thrilling  strains  of  melody 
are  flung  into  the  air.  There  is  at  present  only  one 
tune  in  the  orchestrion's  repertory,  but  it  is  a  very  good 
tune ;  though  after  hearing  it  three  hundred  and  seven 
times  in  a  single  afternoon  it  pursues  one,  sleeping  and 
waking,  for  the  next  week.  Phoebe  and  I  took  the 
Square  Baby  and  went  in  to  this  diversified  entertain- 
ment. There  was  a  small  crowd  of  children  at  the 
entrance,  but  as  none  of  them  seemed  to  be  provided 
with  pennies,  and  I  felt  in  a  fairy  godmother  mood,  I 
offered  them  the  freedom  of  the  place  at  my  expense. 
I  never  purchased  more  radiant  good-will  for  less 
[73] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A    GOOSE   GIRL 

money,  but  the  combined  effect  of  the  well-boiled  tea 
and  the  boiling  orchestrion  produced  many  village 
nightmares,  so  the  mothers  told  me  at  chapel  next 
morning. 

I  have  many  friends  in  Barbury  Green,  and  often 
have  a  pleasant  chat  with  the  draper,  and  the  watch- 
maker, and  the  chemist. 

The  last  house  on  the  principal  street  is  rather  an 
ugly  one,  with  especially  nice  window  curtains.  As  I 


The  freedom  of  the  place  at  my  expense 

[74] 


THE    DIARY   OP   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

was  taking  my  daily  walk  to  the  post-office  (an  entirely 
unfruitful  expedition  thus  far,  as  nobody  has  taken  the 
pains  to  write  to  me)  I  saw  a  nursemaid  coming  out  of 
the  gate,  wheeling  a  baby  in  a  perambulator.  She  was 
going  placidly  away  from  the  Green  when,  far  in  the 
distance,  she  espied  a  man  walking  rapidly  toward  us, 
a  heavy  Gladstone  bag  in  one  hand.  She  gazed  fixedly 
for  a  moment,  her  eyes  brightening  and  her  cheeks 
flushing  with  pleasure,  —  whoever  it  was,  it  was  an 
unexpected  arrival ;  —  then  she  retraced  her  steps  and, 
running  up  the  garden-path,  opened  the  front  door  and 
held  an  excited  colloquy  with  somebody;  a  slender 
somebody  in  a  nice  print  gown  and  neatly  dressed  hair, 
who  came  to  the  gate  and  peeped  beyond  the  hedge 
several  times,  drawing  back  between  peeps  with  smiles 
and  heightened  color.  She  did  not  run  down  the  road, 
even  when  she  had  satisfied  herself  of  the  identity  of 
the  traveler ;  perhaps  that  would  not  have  been  good 
form  in  an  English  village,  for  there  were  houses  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way.  She  waited  until  he  opened 
the  gate,  the  nursemaid  took  the  bag  and  looked  dis- 
creetly into  the  hedge,  then  the  mistress  slipped  her 
hand  through  the  traveler's  arm  and  walked  up  the 
path  as  if  she  had  nothing  else  in  the  world  to  wish  for. 
The  nurse  had  a  part  in  the  joy,  for  she  lifted  the  baby 
out  of  the  perambulator  and  showed  proudly  how  much 
he  had  grown. 

[75] 


THE    DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

It  was  a  dear  little  scene,  and  I,  a  passer-by,  had 
snared  in  it  and  felt  better  for  it.  I  think  their 
content  was  no  less  because  part  of  it  had  enriched  my 
life,  for  happiness,  like  mercy,  is  twice  blessed;  it 
blesses  those  who  are  most  intimately  associated  in  it, 
and  it  blesses  all  those  who  see  it,  hear  it,  feel  it,  touch 
it,  or  breathe  the  same  atmosphere.  A  laughing,  crow- 
ing baby  in  a  house,  one  cheerful  woman  singing  about 
her  work,  a  boy  whistling  at  the  plough,  a  romance  just 
suspected,  with  its  miracle  of  two  hearts  melting  into 
one  —  the  wind  7s  always  in  the  west  when  you  have 
any  of  these  wonder-workers  in  your  neighborhood. 

I  have  talks  too,  sometimes,  with  the  old  parson,  who 
lives  in  a  quaint  house  with  "  Parva  Domus  Magna 
Quies  "  cut  into  the  stone  over  the  doorway.  He  is  not 
a  preaching  parson,  but  a  retired  one,  almost  the  nicest 
kind,  I  often  think. 

He  has  been  married  thirty  years,  he  tells  me ;  thirty 
years,  spent  in  the  one  little  house  with  the  bricks 
painted  red  and  gray  alternately,  and  the  scarlet  holly- 
hocks growing  under  the  windows.  I  am  sure  they  have 
been  sweet,  true,  kind  years,  and  that  his  heart  must  be 
a  quiet,  peaceful  place  just  like  his  house  and  garden. 

"  I  was  only  eleven  years  old  when  I  fell  in  love  with 
my  wife,"  he  told  me  as  we  sat  on  the  seat  under  the 
lime-tree;  he  puffing  cosily  at  his  pipe,  I  plaiting 
grasses  for  a  hatband. 

[76] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

"  It  was  just  before  Sunday-school.  Her  mother  had 
dressed  her  all  in  white  muslin  like  a  fairy,  but  she  had 
stepped  on  the  edge  of  a  puddle,  and  some  of  the  muddy 


Puffing  cosily  at  his  pipe 

water  had  bespattered  her  frock.  A  circle  of  children 
had  surrounded  her,  and  some  of  the  motherly  little 
girls  were  on  their  knees  rubbing  at  the  spots  anxiously, 
while  one  of  them  wiped  away  the  tears  that  were  run- 
ning down  her  pretty  cheeks.  I  looked !  It  was  fatal ! 

[77] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

I  did  not  look  again,  but  I  was  smitten  to  the  very 
heart !  I  did  not  speak  to  her  for  six  years,  but  when 
I  did,  it  was  all  right  with  both  of  us,  thank  God  !  and 
I  Ve  been  in  love  with  her  ever  since,  when  she  behaves 
herself!" 

That  is  the  way  they  speak  of  love  in  Barbury  Green, 
and  oh !  how  much  sweeter  and  more  wholesome  it  is 
than  the  language  of  the  town !  Who  would  not  be  a 
Goose  Girl,  "  to  win  the  secret  of  the  weed's  plain 
heart  ?  "  It  seems  to  me  that  in  society  we  are  always 
gazing  at  magic-lantern  shows,  but  here  we  rest  our 
tired  eyes  with  looking  at  the  stars. 


[78] 


A  Hen  Conference 


XI 

July  16th. 

PHCEBE  and  I  have  been  to  a  Hen  Conference  at  Buf- 
fington.  It  was  for  the  purpose  of  raising  the  standard 
of  the  British  Hen,  and  our  local  Countess,  who  is  much 
interested  in  poultry,  was  in  the  chair. 

It  was  a  very  learned  body,  but  Phoebe  had  coached 
me  so  well  that  at  the  noon  recess  I  could  talk  con- 
fidently with  'the  members,  discussing  the  various 
advantages  of  True  and  Crossed  Minorcas,  Feverels, 
Andalusians,  Cochin  Chinas,  Shanghais,  and  the  White 

[79] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

Leghorn.  (Phoebe,  when  she  pronounces  this  word, 
leaves  out  the  "h"  and  bears  down  heavily  on  the 
last  syllable,  so  that  it  rhymes  with  begone !) 

As  I  was  sitting  under  the  trees  waiting  for  Phoebe 
to  finish  some  shopping  in  the  village,  a  traveling  poul- 
try-dealer came  along  and  offered  to  sell  me  a  silver 
Wyandotte  pullet  and  cockerel.  This  was  a  new  breed 
to  me  and  I  asked  the  price,  which  proved  to  be  more 
than  I  should  pay  for  a  hat  in  Bond  Street.  I  hesi- 
tated, thinking  meantime  what  a  delightful  parting  gift 
they  would  be  for  Phoebe;  I  mean*  if  we  ever  should 
part,  which  seems  more  and  more  unlikely,  as  I  shall 
never  leave  Thornycroft  until  somebody  comes  properly 
to  fetch  me;  indeed,  unless  the  "fetching"  is  done 
somewhat  speedily  I  may  decline  to  go  under  any  cir- 
cumstances. My  indecision  as  to  the  purchase  was 
finally  banished  when  the  poultry  man  asserted  that 
the  fowls  had  clear  open  centres  all  over,  black  lacing 
entirely  round  the  white  centres,  were  free  from  white 
edging,  and  each  had  a  cherry-red  eye.  This  catalogue 
of  charms  inflamed  my  imagination,  though  it  gave  me 
no  mental  picture  of  a  silver  Wyandotte  fowl,  and  I 
paid  the  money  while  the  dealer  crammed  the  chicks, 
squawking,  into  my  five  o'clock  tea-basket. 

The  afternoon  session  of  the  conference  was  most 
exciting,  for  we  reached  the  subject  of  imported  eggs, 
an  industry  that  is  assuming  terrifying  proportions. 
[80] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

The  London  hotel  egg  comes  from  Denmark,  it  seems, 
—  I  should  think  by  sailing  vessel,  not  steamer,  but  I 
may  be  wrong.  After  we  had  settled  that  the  British 
Hen  should  be  protected  and  encouraged,  and  agreed 
solemnly  to  abstain  from  Danish  eggs  in  any  form,  and 


Arguing  questions  of  diet 

made  a  resolution  stating  that  our  loyalty  to  Queen 
Alexandra  would  remain  undiminished,  we  argued  the 
subject  of  hen  diet.  There  was  a  great  difference  of 
opinion  here  and  the  discussion  was  heated;  the  hon- 
orary treasurer  standing  for  pulped  mangold  and  flint 
grit,  the  chair  insisting  on  barley  meal  and  randans, 
[81] 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 


while  one  eloquent  young  woman  declared,  to  loud  cries 
of  "  'Ear,  'ear  ! "  that  rice  pudding  and  bone  chips  pro- 
duce more  eggs  to  the  square  hen  than  any  other  sort 

of  food.  Impassioned 
orators  arose  here  and 
there  in  the  audience 
demanding  recognition 
for  beef  scraps,  char- 
coal, round  corn  or 
buckwheat.  Foods  were 
regarded  from  various 
standpoints :  as  general 
invigorators,  growth 
assisters,  and  egg  pro- 
ducers. A  very  hand- 
some young  farmer  car- 
ried off  final  honors  and 
proved  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  all  the  feminine 
poultry  raisers  that 
green  young  hog  bones 
fresh  cut  in  the  Banner 
Bone  Breaker  (of  which 

The  afternoon  „,«,»  w«  most  exciting        ^  ^   ^   agent)    pQg_ 

sessed  a  nutritive  value  not  to  be  expressed  in  human 
language. 

Phoebe  was  distinctly  nervous  when  I  rose  to  say  a 
[82] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

few  words  on  poultry  breeding,  announcing  as  my  topic 
"  Mothers,  Stepmothers,  Foster-Mothers,  and  Incuba- 
tors." Protected  by  the  consciousness  that  no  one  in 
the  assemblage  could  possibly  know  me,  I  made  a  dis- 
tinct success  in  my  maiden  speech ;  indeed,  I  somewhat 
overshot  the  mark,  for  the  Countess  in  the  chair  sent 
me  a  note  asking  me  to  dine  with  her  that  evening.  I 
suppressed  the  note  and  took  Phoebe  away  before  the 
proceedings  were  finished,  vanishing  from  the  scene  of 
my  triumphs  like  a  veiled  prophet. 

Just  as  we  were  passing  out  the  door  we  paused  to 
hear  the  report  of  a  special  committee  whose  chairman 
read  the  following  resolutions  :  — 

Whereas,  —  It  has  pleased  the  Almighty  to  remove 
from  our  midst  our  greatest  Rose  Comb  Buff  Orpington 
fancier  and  esteemed  friend,  Albert  Edward  Sheridan ; 
therefore  be  it 

Resolved,  —  That  the  next  edition  of  our  catalogue 
contain  an  illustrated  memorial  page  in  his  honor  and 

Resolved,  —  That  the  Kose  Comb  Buff  Orpington  Club 
extend  to  the  bereaved  family  their  heartfelt  sympathy. 

The  handsome  young  farmer  followed  us  out  to  our 
trap,  invited  us  to  attend  the  next  meeting  of  the  K.  C. 
B.  0.  Club,  of  which  he  was  the  secretary,  and  asked  if 
I  were  intending  to  "  show."  I  introduced  Phoebe  as 
the  senior  partner,  and  she  concealed  the  fact  that  we 
possessed  but  one  Buff  Orpington  and  he  was  a  sad 

[83] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

"  invaleed  "  not  suitable  for  exhibition.     The  farmer's 
expression  as  he  looked  at  me  was  almost  lover-like, 


Not  asked  to  the  Conference 

and  when  he  pressed  a  bit  of  paper  into  my  hand  I  was 
sure  it  must  be  an  offer  of  marriage.  It  was  in  fact 
only  a  circular  describing  the  Banner  Bone  Breaker. 
It  closed  with  an  appeal  to  Buff  Orpington  breeders  to 
raise  and  ever  raise  the  standard,  bidding  them  remem- 
ber, in  the  midst  of  a  low-minded  and  sordid  civiliza- 
[84] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

tion,  that  the  rose  comb  should  be  small  and  neat,  firmly 
set  on,  with  good  working,  a  nice  spike  at  the  back  lying 
well  down  to  head,  and  never,  under  any  circumstances, 
never  sticking  up.  This  adjuration  somewhat  alarmed 
us  as  Phoebe  and  I  had  been  giving  our  Buff  Orpington 


Coming  home 

[85] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

cockerel  the  most  drastic  remedies  for  his  languid  and 
prostrate  comb. 

Coming  home  we  alighted  from  the  trap  to  gather 
hogweed  for  the  rabbits.  I  sat  by  the  wayside  lazily 
and  let  Phoebe  gather  the  appetizing  weed,  which  grows 
along  the  thorniest  hedges  in  close  proximity  to  nettles 
and  thistles. 

Workmen  were  trudging  along  with  their  luncheon 
baskets  of  woven  bulrushes  slung  over  their  shoulders. 
Fields  of  ripening  grain  lay  on  either  hand,  the  sun 
shining  on  their  every  shade  of  green  and  yellow,  bronze 
and  orange,  while  the  breeze  stirred  the  bearded  barley 
into  a  rippling  golden  sea. 

Phoebe  asked  me  if  the  people  I  had  left  behind  at 
the  Hydropathic  were  my  relatives. 

"  Some  of  them  are  of  remote  consanguinity,"  I  re- 
sponded evasively,  and  the  next  question  was  hushed 
upon  her  awe-stricken  tongue,  as  I  intended. 

"  They  are  obeying  my  wish  to  be  let  alone,  there  7s 
no  doubt  of  that,"  I  was  thinking.  "  For  my  part  I 
like  a  little  more  spirit,  and  a  little  less  '  letter ' ! " 

As  the  word  "letter"  flitted  through  my  thoughts, 
I  pulled  one  from  my  pocket  and  glanced  through  it 
carelessly.  It  arrived,  somewhat  tardily,  only  last 
night,  or  I  should  not  have  had  it  with  me.  I  wore  the 
same  dress  to  the  post-office  yesterday  that  I  wore  to  the 
Hen  Conference  to-day,  and  so  it  chanced  to  be  still  in 
[86] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 


Workmen  were  trudging  home 


the  pocket.  If  it  had  been  anything  I  valued,  of  course 
I  should  have  lost  or  destroyed  it  by  mistake;  it  is 
only  silly,  worthless  little  things  like  this  that  keep 
turning  up  and  turning  up  after  one  has  forgotten  their 
existence. 

You  are  a  mystery!  [it  ran.]  I  can  apprehend,  but  not 
comprehend  you.  I  know  you  in  part.  I  understand  various 
bits  of  your  nature ;  but  my  knowledge  is  always  fragmentary 
and  disconnected,  and  when  I  attempt  to  make  a  whole  of  the 
mosaics  I  merely  get  a  kaleidoscopic  effect.  Do  you  know 
[87] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

those  geographical  dissected  puzzles  that  they  give  to  chil- 
dren ?  You  remind  me  of  one  of  them. 

I  have  spent  many  charming  (and  dangerous)  hours  trying 
to  "  put  you  together ; "  but  I  find,  when  I  examine  my  pic- 
ture closely,  that  after  all  I  've  made  a  purple  mountain  grow 
out  of  a  green  tree ;  that  my  river  is  running  up  a  steep  hill- 
side ;  and  that  the  pretty  milkmaid,  who  should  be  wander- 
ing in  the  forest,  is  standing  on  her  head  with  her  pail  in  the 
air! 

Do  you  understand  yourself  clearly  ?  Or  is  it  just  possible 
that  when  you  dive  to  the  depths  of  your  own  consciousness, 
you  sometimes  find  the  pretty  milkmaid  standing  on  her 
head?  I  wonder!  .  .  . 

Ah,  well,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  wonders !  So  do  I, 
for  that  matter ! 


[88] 


XII 

July  17th. 

THORNYCROFT  FARM  seems  to  be  the  musical  centre 
of  the  universe. 

When  I  wake  very  early  in  the  morning  I  lie  in  a 
drowsy  sort  of  dream,  trying  to  disentangle,  one  from 
the  other,  the  various  bird  notes,  trills,  coos,  croons, 
chirps,  chirrups,  and  warbles.  Suddenly  there  falls  on 
the  air  a  delicious,  liquid,  finished  song ;  so  pure,  so 
mellow,  so  joyous,  that  I  go  to  the  window  and  look  out 
at  the  morning  world,  half  awakened,  like  myself. 

There  is  I  know  not  what  charm  in  a  window  that 
does  not  push  up,  but  opens  its  lattices  out  into  the 
greenness.  And  mine  is  like  a  little  jeweled  door,  for 
[89] 


THE    DIARY   OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

the  sun  is  shining  from  behind  the  chimneys  and  light- 
ing the  tiny  diamond  panes  with  amber  flashes. 

A  faint  delicate  haze  lies  over  the  meadow,  and  rising 
out  of  it,  and  soaring  toward  the  blue,  is  the  lark,  fling- 
ing out  that  matchless  matin  song,  so  rich,  so  thrilling, 
so  lavish !  As  the  blithe  melody  fades  away,  I  hear  the 
plaintive  ballad-fragments  of  the  robin  on  a  curtsying 
branch  near  my  window ;  and  there  is  always  the  liquid 
pipe  of  the  thrush,  who  must  quaff  a  fairy  goblet  of 
dew  between  his  songs,  I  should  think,  so  fresh  and 
eternally  young  is  his  note. 

There  is  another  beautiful  song  that  I  follow  when- 
ever I  hear  it,  straining  my  eyes  to  the  treetops,  yet 
never  finding  a  bird  that  I  can  identify  as  the  singer. 
Can  it  be  the 

Ousel-cock  so  black  of  hue, 
With  orange-tawny  bill  ? 

He  is  called  the  poet-laureate  of  the  primrose  time,  but 
I  don't  know  whether  he  sings  in  midsummer  and  I 
have  not  seen  him  hereabouts.  I  must  write  and  ask 
my  dear  Man  of  the  North.  The  Man  of  the  North,  I 
sometimes  think,  had  a  Fairy  Grandmother  who  was  a 
robin ;  and  perhaps  she  made  a  nest  of  fresh  moss  and 
put  him  in  the  green  wood  when  he  was  a  wee  bairnie, 
so  that  he  waxed  wise  in  bird-lore  without  knowing  it. 
At  all  events,  describe  to  him  the  cock  of  a  head,  the 
glance  of  an  eye,  the  tip-up  of  a  tail,  or  the  sheen  of  a 

[90] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

feather,  and  he  will  name  you  the  bird.  Near-sighted 
he  is,  too,  the  Man  of  the  North,  but  that  is  only  for 
people. 

The  Square  Baby  and  I  have  a  new  game. 

I  bought  a  doll's  table  and  china  tea-set  in  Buffington. 
We  put  it  under  an  apple-tree  in  the  side  garden,  where 
the  scarlet  lightning  grows  so  tall  and  the  Madonna 
lilies  stand  so  white  against  the  flaming  background. 
We  built  a  little  fence  around  it,  and  every  afternoon 
at  tea-time  we  sprinkle  seeds  and  crumbs  in  the  dishes, 
water  in  the  tiny  cups,  drop  a  cherry  in  each  of  the 
fruit-plates,  and  have  a  the  chantant  for  the  birdies. 
We  sometimes  invite  an  "  invaleed "  duckling,  or  one 
of  the  baby  rabbits,  or  the  peacock,  in  which  case  the 
cards  read :  — 


Thornycroft  Farm. 
The  pleasure  of  your  company  is  requested 

at  a 

The  Chantant 

Under  the  Apple  Tree. 

Music  at  five. 


It  is  a  charming  game,  as  I  say,  but  1 7d  far  rather 
play  it  with  the  Man  of  the  North;  he  is  so  much 
younger  than  the  Square  Baby,  and  so  much  more 
responsive,  too. 

[91] 


THE     DIARY   OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

Thornycroft  Farm  is  a  sweet  place,  too,  of  odors  as 
well  as  sounds.  The  scent  of  the  hay  is  forever  in  the 
nostrils,  the  hedges  are  thick  with  wild  honeysuckle, 
so  deliciously  fragrant,  the  last  of  the  June  roses  are 


The  scent  of  the  hay 

lingering  to  do  their  share,  and  blackberry  blossoms 
and  ripening  fruit  as  well. 

I  have  never  known  a  place  in  which  it  is  so  easy  to 
be  good.  I  have  not  said  a  word,  nor  scarcely  harbored 
a  thought,  'that  was  not  lovely  and  virtuous  since  I 

[92] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 


The  last  of  June 

entered  these  gates,  and  yet  there  are  those  who  think 
me  fantastic,  difficult,  hard  to  please,  unreasonable  ! 
I  believe  the  saints  must  have  lived  in  the  country 
[93] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

mostly  (I  am  certain  they  never  tried  Hydropathic 
hotels),  and  why  anybody  with  a  black  heart  and  natu- 
ral love  of  wickedness  should  not  simply  buy  a  poultry 
farm  and  become  an  angel,  I  cannot  understand. 

Living  with  animals  is  really  a  very  improving  and 


A  place  in  'which  it  is  so  easy  to  be  good 

wholesome  kind  of  life,  to  the  person  who  will  allow  him- 
self to  be  influenced  by  their  sensible  and  high-minded 

[94] 


THE   DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

ideals.  When  you  come  to  think  about  it,  man  is  really 
the  only  animal  that  ever  makes  a  fool  of  himself ;  the 
others  are  highly  civilized,  and  never  make  mistakes. 
I  am  going  to  mention  this  when  I  write  to  somebody, 
sometime  ;  I  mean  if  I  ever  do.  To  be  sure,  our  human 
life  is  much  more  complicated  than  theirs,  and  I  believe 
when  the  other  animals  notice  our  errors  of  judgment 
they  make  allowances.  The  bee  is  as  busy  as  a  bee, 
and  the  beaver  works  like  a  beaver,  but  there  their 
responsibility  ends.  The  bee  does  n't  have  to  go  about 
seeing  that  other  bees  are  not  crowded  into  unsanitary 
tenements  or  victimized  by  the  sweating  system.  When 
the  beaver's  day  of  toil  is  over  he  does  n't  have  to  dis- 
cuss the  sphere,  the  rights,  or  the  voting  privileges  of 
beaveresses  ;  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  work  like  a  beaver, 
and  that  is  comparatively  simple. 


[95] 


Not  particularly  attracted  by  the  poultry 


XIII 

I  HAVE  been  studying  the  Young  Poultry  Keeper's 
Friend  of  late.  If  there  is  anything  I  dislike  and 
deplore  it  is  the  possession  of  knowledge  which  I  can- 
not put  to  practical  use.  Having  discovered  an  inter- 
esting disease  called  Scaly  Leg  in  the  July  number,  I 
took  the  magazine  out  into  the  poultry  yard  and  identi- 
fied the  malady  on  three  hens  and  a  cock.  Phoebe 
joined  me  in  the  diagnosis  and  we  treated  the  victims 
with  a  carbolic  lotion  and  scrubbed  them  with  vaseline. 

As  Phoebe  and  I  grow  wise  in  medical  lore  the  case 
[96] 


THE    DIARY    OP    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

of  Cannibal  Ann  assumes  a  different  aspect.  As  the 
bibulous  man  quaffs  more  and  more  flagons  of  beer  and 
wine  when  his  daily  food  is  ham,  salt  fish,  and  cabbage, 
so  does  the  hen  avenge  her  wrongs  of  diet  and  woes  of 
environment.  Cannibal  Ann,  herself,  has,  so  far  as  we 
know,  been  raised  in  a  Christian  manner  and  enjoyed 
all  the  advantages  of  modern  methods  ;  but  her  mater- 
nal parent  may  have  lived  in  some  heathen  poultry 


Leaned  languidly  against  the  netting 

yard  which  was  asphalted  or  bricked  or  flagged,  so  that 
she  was  debarred  from  scratching  in  Mother  Earth  and 
was  forced  to  eat  her  own  shells  in  self-defense. 

The  Square  Baby  is  not  particularly  attracted  by  the 
[97] 

* 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

poultry  as  a  whole,  save  when  it  is  boiled  with  bacon  or 
roasted  with  bread-sauce  ;  but  he  is  much  interested  in 
the  "invaleeds."  Whenever  Phoebe  and  I  start  for 
the  hospital  with  the  tobacco-pills,  the  tin  of  paraffine, 


Staggered  and  reeled 

and  the  bottle  of  oil,  he  is  very  much  in  evidence.  Per- 
haps he  has  a  natural  leaning  toward  the  medical  pro- 
fession ;  at  any  rate,  when  pain  and  anguish  wring  the 
brow,  he  is  in  close  attendance  upon  the  ministering 
angels. 

Now  it  is  necessary  for  the  physician  to  have  prac- 
tice as  well  as  theory,  so  the  Square  Baby,  being  left  to 
himself  this  afternoon,  proceeded  to  perfect  himself 

[98] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE   GIRL 


Caught  her  son  red-handed 

in  some  of  the  healing  arts  used  by  country  practi- 
tioners. 

When  discovered,  he  was  seated  in  front  of  the  wire- 
covered  "run"  attached  to  a  coop  occupied  by  the 
youngest  goslings.  A  couple  of  bottles  and  a  box  stood 
by  his  side,  and  I  should  think  he  had  administered  a 
cup  of  sweet  oil,  a  pint  of  paraffine,  and  a  quarter  of 
a  pound  of  tobacco  during  his  clinic.  He  had  used  the 
remedies  impartially,  sometimes  giving  the  paraffine  in- 
ternally and  rubbing  the  patient's  head  with  tobacco  or 
oil,  sometimes  the  reverse. 

[99] 


THE   DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE   GIRL 

Several  goslings  leaned  languidly  against  the  netting 
or  supported  themselves  by  the  edge  of  the  water-dish, 
while  others  staggered  and  reeled  about  with  eyes  half 
closed. 

It  was  Mrs.  Heaven  who  caught  her  son  red-handed, 
so  to  speak.  She  was  dressed  in  her  best  and  just 
driving  off  to  Woodmucket  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with 
her  married  daughter,  and  soothe  her  nerves  with  the 


He  was  treated  summarily  and  smartly 

uproar  incident  to  a  town  of  six  hundred  inhabitants. 

She  delayed  her  journey  a  half  hour  —  long  enough,  in 

fact,  to  change  her  black  silk  waist  for  a  loose  sacque 

[100] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

which  would  give  her  arms  full  and  comfortable  play. 
The  joy  and  astonishment  that  greeted  the  Square  Baby 
on  his  advent,  five  years  ago,  was  forgotten  for  the  first 
time  in  his  brief  life,  and  he  was  treated  precisely  as 
any  ordinary  wrong-doer  would  have  been  treated  under 
the  same  circumstances,  summarily  and  smartly;  the 
"  wepping,"  as  Phoebe  would  say,  being  Mrs.  Heaven's 
hand. 

All  but  one  of  the  goslings  lived,  like  thousands  of 
others  who  recover  in  spite  of  the  doctors,  but  the  Square 
Baby's  interest  in  the  healing  art  is  now  perceptibly 
lessened. 


[101] 


XIV 

July  18th. 

THE  day  was  Friday  ;  Phoebe's  day  to  go  to  Buffing- 
ton  with  eggs  and  chickens  and  rabbits ;  her  day  to  so- 
licit orders  for  ducklings  and  goslings.  The  village  cart 
was  ready  in  the  stable ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Heaven  were  in 
Woodmucket ;  I  was  eating  my  breakfast  (which  I  re- 
member was  an  egg  and  a  rasher)  when  Phoebe  came 
in,  a  figure  of  woe. 

The  Square  Baby  was  ill,  very  ill,  and  would  not  per- 
mit her  to  leave  him  and  go  to  market.  Would  I  look 
at  him  ?  Tor  he  must  have  dowsed  'imself  as  well  as 
the  goslings  yesterday ;  anyways  he  was  strong  of 
paraffine  and  tobacco,  though  he  ?ad  'ad  a  good  barth. 

I  prescribed  for  Albert  Edward,  who  was  as  uncom- 
fortable and  feverish  as  any  little  sinner  in  the  county 
of  Sussex,  and  I  then  promptly  proposed  going  to  Buf- 
fington  in  Phoebe's  place. 

She  did  not  think  it  at  all  proper,  and  said  that,  not- 
withstanding my  cotton  gown  and  sailor  hat,  I  looked 
quite,  quite  the  lydy,  and  it  would  never  do. 

"  I  cannot  get  any  new  orders,"  said  I,  "  but  I  can 
certainly  leave  the  rabbits  and  eggs  at  the  customary 
[102] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

places.  I  know  Argent's  Dining  Parlours,  and  Song- 
hurst's  Tea  Rooms,  and  the  Six  Bells  Inn,  as  well  as 
you  do." 

So,  donning  a  pair  of  Phoebe's  large  white  cotton 
gloves  with  openwork  wrists  (than  which  I  always 
fancy  there  is  no  one  article  that  so  disguises  the  per- 


The  Six  Bells  found  the  last  poultry  somewhat  tough 

[103] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

feet  lydy),  I  set  out  upon  my  travels,  upborne  by  a 
lively  sense  of  amusement  that  was  at  least  equal  to 
my  feeling  that  I  was  doing  Phoebe  Heaven  a  good 
turn. 

Prices  in  dressed  poultry  were  fluctuating,  but  I  had 
a  copy  of  The  Trade  Review,  issued  that  very  day, 
and  was  able  to  get  some  idea  of  values  and  the  state 
of  the  market,  as  I  jogged  along.  The  general  move- 
ment, I  learned,  was  moderate  and  of  a  "selective" 
character.  Choice  large  capons  and  ducks  were  in 
steady  demand,  but  I  blushed  for  my  profession  when  I 
read  that  roasting  chickens  were  running  coarse,  staggy, 
and  of  irregular  value.  Old  hens  were  held  firmly  at 
sixpence,  and  it  is  my  experience  that  they  always  have 
to  be,  at  whatever  price.  Geese  were  plenty,  dull,  and 
weak.  Old  cocks,  —  why  don't  they  say  roosters  ?  — 
declined  to  threepence  ha'penny  on  Thursday  in  sym- 
pathy with  fowls,  —  and  who  shall  say  that  chivalry  is 
dead  ?  Turkeys  were  a  trifle  steadier  and  there  was 
a  speculative  movement  in  limed  eggs.  All  this  was 
illuminating  and  I  only  wished  I  were  quite  certain 
whether  the  sympathetic  old  roosters  were  threepence 
ha'penny  apiece,  or  a  pound. 

Everything  happened  as  it  should,  on  this  first  busi- 
ness journey  of  my  life,  which  is  equivalent  to  saying 
that  nothing  happened  at  all.  Songhurst's  Tea  Rooms 
took  five  dozen  eggs  and  told  me  to  bring  six  dozen 
[104] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

the  next  week.  Argent's  Dining  Parlours  purchased 
three  pairs  of  chickens  and  four  rabbits.  The  Six 
Bells  found  the  last  poultry  somewhat  tough  and  taste- 
less ;  whereupon  I  said  that  our  orders  were  more 
than  we  could  possibly  fill,  still  I  hoped  we  could  go 


The  gadabout  hen 

on  "  selling  them,"  as  we  never  liked  to  part  with  old 
customers,  no  matter  how  many  new  ones  there  were. 
Privately,  I  understood  the  complaint  only  too  well, 
for  I  knew  the  fowls  in  question  very  intimately.  Two 
of  them  were  the  runaway  rooster  and  the  gadabout 
hen  that  never  wanted  to  go  to  bed  with  the  others. 
The  third  was  Cannibal  Ann.  I  should  have  expected 
them  to  be  tough,  but  I  cannot  believe  they  were  lack- 
ing in  flavor. 

[105] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

The  only  troublesome  feature  of  the  trip  was  that 
Mrs.  Sowerbutt's  lodgers  had  suddenly  left  for  London 
and  she  was  unable  to  take  the  four  rabbits  as  she  had 
hoped ;  but  as  an  offset  to  that  piece  of  ill-fortune  the 
Coke  and  Coal  Yard  and  the  Bicycle  Eepairing  Booms 
came  out  into  the  street,  and,  stepping  up  to  the  trap, 
requested  regular  weekly  deliveries  of  eggs  and  chick- 
ens, and  hoped  that  I  would  be  able  to  bring  them  my- 
self. And  so,  in  a  happy  frame  of  mind,  I  turned  out 
of  the  Buffington  main  street,  and  was  jogging  along 
homeward,  when  a  very  startling  thing  happened; 
namely,  a  whole  verse  of  The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of 
Islington :  — 

And  as  she  went  along  the  high  road, 

The  weather  being  hot  and  dry, 
She  sat  her  down  upon  a  green  bank, 

And  her  true  love  came  riding  by. 

That  true  lovers  are  given  to  riding  by,  in  ballads,  I 
know  very  well,  but  I  hardly  supposed  they  did  so  in 
real  life,  especially  when  every  precaution,  had  been 
taken  to  avert  such  a  catastrophe.  I  had  told  the  Bar- 
bury  Green  postmistress  on  the  morning  of  my  arrival, 
not  to  give  the  Thornycroft  address  to  anybody  whatso- 
ever, but  finding,  as  the  days  passed,  that  no  one  was 
bold  enough  or  sensible  enough  to  ask  for  it,  I  haugh- 
tily withdrew  my  prohibition.  About  this  time  I  began 
sending  envelopes,  carefully  addressed  in  a  feigned 
[106] 


THE   DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

hand,  to  a  certain  person  at  the  Oxenbridge  Hydro. 
These  envelopes  contained  no  word  of  writing,  but  held, 
on  one  day  only  a  bit  of  down  from  a  hen's  breast,  on 
another,  a  goose-quill,  on  another,  a  glossy  tail-feather, 
on  another,  a  grain  of  corn,  and  so  on.  These  trifles 


She  <was  unable  to  take  the  four  rabbits 

were  regarded  by  me  not  as  degrading  or  unmaidenly 
hints  and  suggestions,  but  simply  as  tests  of  intelli- 
gence. Could  a  man  receive  tokens  of  this  sort  and 
fail  to  put  two  and  two  together  ?  I  feel  that  I  might 
[107] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A   GOOSE    GIRL 

possibly  support  life  with,  a  domineering  and  auto- 
cratic husband,  —  and  there  is  every  prospect  that  I 
shall  be  called  upon  to  do  so,  —  but  not  with  a  stupid 
one.  Suppose  one  were  linked  forever  to  a  man  ca- 
pable of  asking,  —  "  Did  you  send  those  feathers  ?  " 
..."  How  was  I  to  guess  ?  "  .  .  .  "  How  was  a  fellow 
to  know  they  came  from  you  ?"..."  What  on  earth 
could  I  suppose  they  meant  ? "  .  .  .  "  What  clue  did 
they  offer  me  as  to  your  whereabouts  ?"..."  Am  I 
a  Sherlock  Holmes  ?"  —  No,  better  eternal  celibacy 
than  marriage  with  such  a  being ! 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  had  been  coursing 
through  my  goose-girl  mind  while  I  had  been  selling 
dressed  poultry,  but  in  some  way  they  had  not  pre- 
pared me  for  the  appearance  of  the  aforesaid  true  love. 

To  see  the  very  person  whom  one  has  left  civiliza- 
tion to  avoid  is  always  more  or  less  surprising,  and  to 
make  the  meeting  less  likely,  Buffington  is  even  farther 
from  Oxenbridge  than  Barbury  Green.  The  creature 
was  well  mounted  (ominous,  when  he  came  to  override 
my  caprice!)  and  he  looked  bigger,  and,  yes,  hand- 
somer, though  that  does  n't  signify,  and  still  more 
determined  than  when  I  saw  him  last ;  although  good- 
ness knows  that  timidity  and  feebleness  of  purpose 
were  not  in  striking  evidence  on  that  memorable  occa- 
sion. I  had  drawn  up  under  the  shade  of  a  tree  osten- 
sibly to  eat  some  cherries,  thinking  that  if  I  turned  my 
[108] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

face  away  I  might  pass  unrecognized.  It  was  a  stupid 
plan,  for  if  I  had  whipped  up  the  mare  and  driven  on, 
he,  of  course,  would  have  had  to  follow,  and  he  has  too 


The  creature  vvas  tuell  mounted 

much  dignity  and  self-respect  to  shriek  recriminations 
into  a  woman's  ear  from  a  distance. 

He  approached  with  deliberation,  reined  in  his  horse, 
and  lifted  his  hat  ceremoniously.  He  has  an  extremely 
shapely  head,  but  I  did  not  show  that  the  sight  of  it 
melted  in  the  least  the  ice  of  my  resolve ;  whereupon 
we  talked,  not  very  freely  at  first,  —  men  are  so  stiff 
when  they  consider  themselves  injured.  However, 
silence  is  even  more  embarrassing  than  conversation, 
so  at  length  I  begin :  — 

[109] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  It  is  a  lovely  day." 

True  Love.  —  "Yes,  but  the  drought  is  getting  rather 
oppressive,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  The  crops  certainly  need  rain, 
and  the  feed  is  becoming  scarce." 

True  Love.  —  "  Are  you  a  farmer's  wife  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  Oh,  no  !  that  is  a  promotion 
to  look  forward  to ;  I  am  now  only  a  Goose  Girl." 

True  Love.  —  "  Indeed !  If  I  wished  to  be  severe  I 
might  remark  that  I  am  sure  you  have  found  at  last 
your  true  vocation  !  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  It  was  certainly  through  no 
desire  to  please  you  that  I  chose  it." 

True  Love.  —  "I  am  quite  sure  of  that !  Are  you 
staying  in  this  part  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  Oh,  no  !  I  live  many  miles 
distant,  over  an  extremely  rough  road.  And  you  ?  " 

True  Love.  —  "I  am  still  at  the  Hydropathic  j  or  at 
least  my  luggage  is  there." 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  It  must  be  very  pleasant  to 
attract  you  so  long." 

True  Love.  —  "  Not  so  pleasant  as  it  was." 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  — "  No  ?  A  new  proprietor,  I 
suppose." 

True  Love.  —  "  No ;  same  proprietor ;  but  the  house 
is  empty." 

Bailiff's  Daughter  (yawning  purposely).  —  "  That  is 
[110] 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

strange ;  the  hotels  are  usually  so  full  at  this  season. 
Why  did  so  many  leave  ?  " 

True  Love.  —  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  only  one  left. 
( Full '  and  <  empty ?  are  purely  relative  terms.  I  call  a 
hotel  full  when  it  has  you  in  it,  empty  when  it  has  n't." 

Bailiff's  Daughter  (dying  to  laugh  but  concealing 
her  feelings).  —  "I  trust  my  bulk  does  not  make  the 
same  impression  on  the  general  public  !  Well,  I  won't 
detain  you  longer ;  good-afternoon ;  I  must  go  home  to 
my  evening  work." 

True  Love.  —  "I  will  accompany  you." 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "If  you  are  a  gentleman  you 
will  remain  where  you  are." 

True  Love.  —  "  In  the  road  ?  Perhaps ;  but  if  I  am 
a  man  I  shall  follow  you;  they  always  do,  I  notice. 
What  are  those  foolish  bundles  in  the  back  of  that  silly 
cart?7' 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  Feed  for  the  pony,  please, 
sir ;  fish  for  dinner ;  randans  and  barley  meal  for  the 
poultry ;  and  four  unsold  rabbits.  Would  n't  you  like 
them  ?  Only  one  and  sixpence  apiece.  Shot  at  three 
o'clock  this  morning." 

True  Love.  —  "Thanks;  I  don't  like  mine  shot  so 
early." 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  — "Oh,  well!  doubtless  I  shall 
be  able  to  dispose  of  them  on  my  way  home,  though 
times  is  'ard ! " 

[111] 


THE    DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

True  Love.  —  "  Do  you  mean  that  you  will  (  peddle ' 
them  along  the  road  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  You  understand  me  better 
than  usual,  —  in  fact  to  perfection." 

He  dismounts  and  strides  to  the. back  of  the  cart, 
lifts  the  covers,  seizes  the  rabbits,  flings  some  silver 
contemptuously  into  the  basket,  and  looks  about  him  for 
a  place  to  bury  his  bargain.  A  small  boy  approaching 
in  the  far  distance  will  probably  bag  the  game. 

Bailiff's  Daughter  (modestly).  —  "  Thanks  for  your 
trade,  sir,  rather  ungraciously  bestowed,  and  we  'opes 
for  a  continuance  of  your  past  fyvors." 

True  Love  (leaning  on  the  wheel  of  the  trap). — 
"Let  us  stop  this  nonsense.  What  did  you  hope  to 
gain  by  running  away  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  Distance  and  absence." 

True  Love.  —  "  You  knew  you  could  n't  prevent  my 
offering  myself  to  you  sometime  or  other." 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  Perhaps  not ;  but  I  could  at 
least  defer  it,  could  n't  I  ?  " 

True  Love.  —  "Why  postpone  the  inevitable  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  Doubtless  I  shrank  from  giv- 
ing you  the  pain  of  a  refusal." 

True  Love.  —  "  Perhaps ;  but  do  you  know  what  I 
suspect  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  I  'm  not  a  suspicious  person, 
thank  goodness ! " 

[112] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

True  Love.  —  "  That,  on  the  contrary,  you  are  will- 
fully withholding  from  me  the  joy  of  acceptance." 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "If  I  intended  to  accept  you, 
why  did  I  run  away  ?  " 

True  Love.  —  "  To  make  yourself  more  desirable  and 
precious,  I  suppose." 

Bailiff's  Daughter  (with  the  most  confident  co- 
quetry). —  "  Did  I  succeed  ?  " 

True  Love.  —  "  No ;  you  failed  utterly." 

Bdiliff's  Daughter  (secretly  piqued).  —  "  Then  I  am 
glad  I  tried  it." 

True  Love.  —  "You  couldn't  succeed  because  you 
were  superlatively  desirable  and  precious  already ;  but 
you  should  never  have  experimented.  Don't  you  know 
that  Love  is  a  high  explosive  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  — "Is  it?  Then  it  ought  al- 
ways to  be  labeled  '  dangerous/  ought  n't  it  ?  But  who 
thought  of  suggesting  matches  ?  I  'in  sure  I  did  n't ! " 

True  Love.  —  "  No  such  luck ;  I  wish  you  would." 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  According  to  your  theory,  if 
you  apply  a  match  to  Love  it  is  likely  to  '  go  off.' " 

True  Love.  —  "I  wish  you  would  try  it  on  mine  and 
await  the  result.  Come  now,  you  '11  have  to  marry  some- 
body, sometime." 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "I  confess  I  don't  see  the  ne- 
cessity." 

True  Love  (morosely).  —  "  You  're  the  sort  of  woman 
[113] 


THE   DIARY   OF   A   GOOSE   GIRL 

men  won't  leave  in  undisturbed  spinsterhood j  they'll 
keep  on  badgering  you." 

Bailiffs  Daughter.  —  "  Oh,  I  don't  mind  the  badger- 
ing of  a  number  of  men ;  it  's  rather  nice.  It  's  the  one 
badger  I  find  obnoxious." 

True  Love  (impatiently).  —  "  That's  just  the  perver- 
sity of  things.  I  could  put  a  stop  to  the  protestations 
of  the  many ;  I  should  like  nothing  better  —  but  the 
pertinacity  of  the  one!  Ah,  well!  I  can't  drop  that 
without  putting  an  end  to  my  existence." 

Bailiffs  Daughter  (politely).  — " I  shouldn't  think 
of  suggesting  anything  so  extreme." 

True  Love  (quoting).  —  "  '  Mrs.  Hauksbee  proceeded 
to  take  the  conceit  out  of  Pluffles  as  you  remove  the 
ribs  of  an  umbrella  before  re-covering.'  However,  you 
could  n't  ask  me  anything  seriously  that  I  would  n't  do, 
dear  Mistress  Perversity." 

Bailiffs  Daughter  (yielding  a  point).  —  "I'll  put 
that  boldly  to  the  proof.  Say  you  don't  love  me ! " 

True  Love  (seizing  his  advantage).  —  " I  don't !  It 's 
imbecile  and  besotted  devotion !  Tell  me,  when  may  I 
come  to  take  you  away  ?  " 

Bailiffs  Daughter  (sighing).  —  "It's  like  asking  me 
to  leave  Heaven." 

True  Love.  —  "I  know  it ;  she  told  me  where  to  find 
you,  —  Thornycroft  is  the  seventh  poultry-farm  I've 
visited,  —  but  you  could  never  leave  heaven,  you  are 
[114] 


THE    DIARY   OF    A   GOOSE   GIRL 

always  carrying  it  along  with  you.  All  you  would  have 
to  do  is  to  admit  me ;  heaven  is  full  of  twos.  If  you 
can't  be  happy  without  poultry,  why  that  is  a  wish 
easily  gratified.  I'll  get  you  a  farm  to-morrow;  no, 


I 

Phoebe  and  Gladiuhh 

it 's  Saturday  and  the  real  estate  offices  close  at  noon, 

but  on  Monday,  without  fail.     Your  ducks  and  geese 

shall  swim  on  a  crystal  lake — Phoebe  told  me  what 

[115] 


THE    DIARY    OF   A   GOOSE    GIRL 

a  genius  you  have  for  getting  them  out  of  the  muddy 
pond;  she  was  sitting  beside  it  when  I  called,  her 
hand  in  that  of  a  straw-colored  person  named  Gladwish 
and  the  ground  in  her  vicinity  completely  strewn  with 
votive  offerings.  You  shall  splash  your  silver  sea  with 
an  ivory  wand ;  your  hens  shall  have  suburban  cottages, 
each  with  its  garden ;  their  perches  shall  be  of  satin- 
wood  and  their  water  dishes  of  mother-of-pearl.  You 
shall  be  the  Goose  Girl  and  I  will  be  the  Swan  Herd 
—  simply  to  be  near  you,  for  I  hate  live  poultry.  Dost 
like  the  picture  ?  It 's  a  little  like  Claude  Melnotte's, 
I  confess.  The  fact  is  I  am  not  quite  sane;  talking 
with  you  after  a  fortnight  of  the  tabbies  at  the  Hydro 
is  like  quaffing  inebriating  vodka  after  Miffin's  Food ! 
May  I  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter  (hedging).  —  "I  shall  be  rather 
busy ;  the  Crossed  Minorca  hen  comes  off  to-morrow." 

True  Love.  —  "  Oh,  never  mind !  I  '11  take  her  off  to- 
night when  I  escort  you  to  the  farm ;  then  she  '11  get  a 
day's  advantage." 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  And  rob  fourteen  prospective 
chicks  of  a  mother ;  nay,  lose  the  chicks  themselves  ? 
Never ! " 

True  Love.  —  "  So  long  as  you  are  a  Goose  Girl, 
does  it  make  any  difference  whose  you  are  ?  Is  it  any 
more  agreeable  to  be  Mrs.  Heaven's  Goose  Girl  than 
mine  ?  " 

[116] 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    GOOSE    GIRL 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "  Ah  !  but  in  one  case  the  term 
of  service  is  limited ;  in  the  other,  permanent." 

True  Love.  —  "  But  in  the  one  case  you  are  the  slave 
of  the  employer,  in  the  other  the  employer  of  the  slave. 
Why  did  you  run  away  ?  " 

Bailiff's  Daughter.  —  "A  man's  mind  is  too  dull  an 
instrument  to  measure  a  woman's  reason ;  even  my  own 
fails  sometimes  to  deal  with  all  its  delicate  shades ;  but 
I  think  I  must  have  run  away  chiefly  to  taste  the  plea- 
sure of  being  pursued  and  brought  back.  If  it  is  neces- 
sary to  your  happiness  that  you  should  explore  all  the 
Bluebeard  chambers  of  my  being,  I  will  confess  further 
that  it  has  taken  you  nearly  three  weeks  to  accomplish 
what  I  supposed  you  would  do  in  three  days ! " 

True  Love  (after  a  well-spent  interval).  —  "To-mor- 
row, then;  shall  we  say  before  breakfast?  Ah,  do! 
Why  not?  Well,  then,  immediately  after  breakfast, 
and  I  breakfast  at  seven  nowadays  and  sometimes  ear- 
lier. Do  take  off  those  ugly  cotton  gloves,  dear ;  they 
are  five  sizes  too  large  for  you  and  so  rough  and  baggy 
to  the  touch ! " 


[117] 


(Cfce 

Electro  typed  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  <5r»  Co, 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


flea 


